


when a fire starts to burn

by faithtastic



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, Hawke is an asshole, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Sibling Rivalry, Warden Bethany Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3301565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithtastic/pseuds/faithtastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grey Warden Bethany Hawke joins the Inquisition. It's inevitable that its sweetheart/chief diplomat catches her eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on my own prompt on tumblr because, apparently, I cannot let it go:
> 
> The Grey Warden the Inquisitor recruits in the Hinterlands is Bethany Hawke (let’s handwave why she’s there, okay).
> 
> Of course she develops a crush on Josephine. And, yeah, worldly Grey Warden!Bethany is now fully aware of the six things women are good for (according to Isabela)…
> 
>  
> 
> This may not end up as smutty as the prompt would imply.

At night a certain stillness settles over Skyhold though the distant refrains of music can be heard faintly, coming from the tavern. There are soldiers posted atop the watchtowers, lit braziers piercing the inky darkness, but for the most part the ramparts are deserted.

Bethany usually seeks out Varric for a pint and a round of cards but tonight she feels restless. She's been out here for hours, stewing in her thoughts.

Her last conversation with Marian keeps turning over in her mind. They'd quarrelled—nothing new there—but this time it went beyond their usual needling of each other. Marian's furious with her, Bethany having defied her sister's instructions to accompany Aveline to Weisshaupt and stay far, far away from the threat of Corypheus. She isn't sorry. The Inquisition gives her new purpose beyond waiting to die. Still, no matter how much Marian causes her aggravation, she isn't comforted by their parting this way.

In the morning she intends to petition the Inquisitor to accompany him to Crestwood. Perhaps something can be salvaged of the situation.

"Good evening, Warden. May I join you?"

Bethany turns her head, jolted out of her introspection. She hadn't heard Ambassador Montilyet's approach. Even at this late hour she's still resplendent in the finery of her office. Beside her Bethany is conscious of the frayed edges of her uniform.

"Oh, yes, of course."

She isn't used to dealing with gentry or diplomats, doesn't know the protocol—that's her sister's speciality these days, however blunt Marian may be. Should she curtsy? Bow? In the end she merely straightens her posture, clasping her hands behind her back as she faces the other woman.

"How do you find the accommodations here at Skyhold? I must apologise that you've had to be situated in the barracks. With the ongoing construction work, space is rather limited at present."

"Still a step up from what I'm used to. It's practically luxurious compared to camping out in the Deep Roads amongst darkspawn." And certainly no worse than the stinking filth-hole Uncle Gamlen calls a home in Lowtown.

Besides it really isn't much of an imposition to bunk down in a dormitory with the soldiers; any modesty she'd once had about changing in front of others was abandoned long ago. If their eyes linger while she strips off she thinks nothing of it. She imagines few have seen a Grey Warden in the flesh, much less shared close quarters with one. A certain curiosity is to be expected. She remembers the first few months after her Joining being similarly in awe, the short-lived fancies she'd taken to some of her fellow Wardens at Ansburg Keep.

Most of those brothers and sisters-in-arms are dead now, succumbed to the taint or otherwise perished. Sooner or later death will come for her, too. Such is her lot.

"Be that as it may, as a close relation of the Viscountess of Kirkwall your status should afford more comfortable surroundings. Once the renovations are completed in the north tower I will ensure you are moved to private quarters."

She has a feeling Lady Montilyet won't take no for an answer.

"That's quite unnecessary but thank you all the same." A rueful smile touches her lips. "It's so strange to hear Marian referred to by that title. I can't get used to it."

In Bethany's head Marian's still just her stubborn, hot-headed older sister who has a tendency to make rash decisions without thinking through the consequences. Which is sort of why Thedas is in its current predicament. Sometimes she wonders if she'd stayed in Kirkwall, hadn't gone on that blighted expedition, whether she'd have been able to exert some influence over Marian and change the course of events. Maybe that's giving herself too much credit because, really, when has Marian ever listened to her?

"Hawke is quite a... formidable woman," the Ambassador says.

Bethany half laughs at that, more a harsh expulsion of air through her nose. "That's putting it kindly."

The Ambassador takes a small step closer, the tilt of her head betraying her intrigue. "I sense you are not on the best of terms."

"My sister's all I have left in this world but we have our differences." Bethany looks away, watching the merchants in the grounds below packing up their wares, before returning her gaze to the other woman. "Has Varric ever told you about the Deep Roads expedition? How I came to be a Grey Warden?"

"He tends to gloss over the particulars of that part of the story."

"I hardly blame him. It isn't the happiest of tales." Bethany takes a breath, relaxing her shoulders a little. "It was on the journey back to Kirkwall that the infection manifested. The corruption set in quickly. It was unlike any sickness I'd ever felt. The very blood in my veins was... _wrong_."

Even now the memory makes her shudder, the maddening sensation of a thousand creatures crawling under her skin as the blight disease claimed her... The taint will always be with her but it's something she's learned to live with, along with the nightmares and the hunger pangs, the hollow feeling in her heart.

"I tried to conceal my affliction at first. I thought—I don't know, that if we could somehow make it to the surface everything might be okay." She shakes her head. How foolish. "Anders knew my only chance of survival was to seek out the Grey Wardens in the area. When we found their commander, Stroud, he reluctantly agreed to take me at Anders's behest. They had a history, I suppose, a debt to be settled."

The Ambassador bit her lip. "Were you frightened?"

"Yes. I was nineteen, barely an adult. I'd never been apart from my family."

Had she known it would be the last time she'd see Mother, that sunny day in Hightown when the expedition set off... Maker. Would she have stayed? Maybe. Even if she'd been discovered by the Templars and dragged to the Gallows, at least she would've been close, might have warned Mother away from Quentin.

She sighs. "But I didn't have a choice. In the end Marian decided for me. She'd rather I was alive with the taint than lose her little sister altogether."

If she sounds a touch bitter, it's only because she hadn't been prepared for how miserable her life would be as a Warden. She thought she'd had it bad as an apostate dodging Templars in Lothering and the slums of Kirkwall; that was nothing compared to the gruelling days and nights spent trudging the Free Marches under Stroud's command, hunting darkspawn with little respite.

She was no longer a person with hopes and aspirations (wishing anything for the future was an indulgence she couldn't afford); she became a tool, her body and magic a honed weapon against the darkness. There was little comfort to be had beyond a grim camaraderie with her fellow Wardens. Varric's old nickname for her, 'Sunshine', came to feel like an ironic barb.

Lady Montilyet is silent for a long time, then: "If a similar fate had befallen my sister, I cannot say I would act differently. Although Yvette believes running off to join the Grey Wardens to be incredibly romantic. Perhaps I could arrange for her to meet with you so you may disavow her of this notion."

Bethany smiles, for once unstrained. "I'd be glad to, Lady Montilyet."

A faint waft of the other woman's perfume reaches Bethany, carried on the breeze, and she finds herself swaying forward to follow the scent. Maker, it's been so long since she's smelled anything more fragrant than caustic soap. It's like wandering through a midnight garden in bloom.

Their eyes meet and in that second something foreign takes hold of Bethany. It takes her a moment to recognise the feeling for what it is, to piece the fragments of her scattered thoughts together: shy interest, attraction. The slow, steady thump of her heartbeat picks up.

"Yes, well. I have detained you long enough." Is that a note of regret in the Ambassador's tone? She seems a little flustered. "If I can be of any further assistance please do let me know, Warden."

Part of Bethany's mind is scrambling for a reason to ask Lady Montilyet to remain but she comes up short. Instead, she bows slightly. "Goodnight, Ambassador."

"Farewell."

It must surely be the nearby brazier casting a warm glow on the Ambassador's cheeks, giving the illusion of a slight blush, as she backs away.


	2. Chapter 2

"What's the matter, Sunshine? Another shitty hand?"

Bethany sighs and sets her cards down. She still hasn't got the hang of Wicked Grace after all these years. Isabela once said it's because she has a terrible 'game face' and Bethany supposes it's true. She never was a very good liar.

"Maybe I should give up while I still have the clothes on my back."

"Now you know Hawke would kill me if I swindled her little sister out of her dignity." Varric pushes a modest pile of silver coins across the table. "How about we call it even. Just don't go telling anyone. If the Merchants' Guild ever got wind of it, I'd never live it down."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

She reaches for the pint in front of her and takes a long swallow of sweet cider. As she does so her gaze falls upon the Inquisitor and his advisers entering the tavern.

It's unusual to see them together after hours, amongst the ordinary folk. A respectful hush falls over the patrons; even the bard pauses in the strumming of her lute. The chatter and music pick up again once the newcomers are seated. A serving girl nervously approaches to take their order, briefly obscuring them from view.

Over the rim of her tankard, Bethany catches Lady Montilyet's eye without really meaning to. She inclines her head in a courteous salutation and Bethany's cheeks grow warm. She looks down, staring at the pewter mug in her hands, running her fingers over the tiny dents and imperfections in the metal before glancing up again, only to find the Ambassador's attention is back with her companions.

The disappointment must show on Bethany's face because Varric gives a curious look. He follows her line of sight and chuckles to himself.

"You too, huh?"

"What?"

Her eyes keep straying distractedly over to the Ambassador. She watches the way Lady Montilyet moves her hands as she speaks. What is she discussing so animatedly? Perhaps the steady procession of nobles that arrive at Skyhold daily, how they jockey for power and influence. All Bethany's overheard is them complaining about the state of the guest quarters: the décor is not to their liking; it's damp and draughty; there's not enough room for their collection of hats or other such frivolous things. As if any of that matters when Corypheus is intent on tearing the world apart. She doesn't know how Lady Montilyet manages to maintain such unflappable civility in the face of it all.

"Ruffles. Half of Skyhold is sweet on her."

Bethany considers denying it but this is Varric; he knows her too well. "Am I that obvious?"

"Nah. I just remember the exact same look when you were swooning over Choirboy back in the day."

Maker. She hasn't thought of Sebastian in years. It was innocent, really; a silly crush. He'd paid her a few compliments and who wouldn't be flattered by a _prince_ showing them attention? This is different. There's nothing chaste about the way she thinks of Lady Montilyet. Isabela would be so proud.

"Is she... seeing anyone?"

"Not that I know of. As beautiful and widely admired as she is, our dear Ambassador's married to the job. I don't think she could bear to tear herself away from her paperwork."

"Oh."

"But maybe you're the one to change that." He favours her with an encouraging smile.

Her eyes flick back to the Ambassador. She's laughing at something, demurely covering her mouth as she giggles.

Bethany scoffs quietly. "How would I even approach her? I'm not charming or amusing. I stumble horribly over my words when I'm around someone I fancy."

"Just be yourself, Sunshine. You were the sweetest, nicest girl I knew in Kirkwall. " Were. The years and hardships she's endured as a Warden have chipped away at those qualities. They both know it. "Everyone was a little in love with you, you know."

"I hadn't noticed. I was too busy looking over my shoulder for Templars."

"Well, in my experience a small token of affection is usually a good opening. Rumour has it she's got a sweet tooth. That could be your in."

"And we're just overflowing with chocolatiers in Skyhold, Varric."

He tuts at her sarcasm. "Lucky for you I have an associate in Val Royeaux who owes me a favour. Give me a few days to arrange something."

"Not that I'm not grateful but why?"

"Look around, kiddo. There isn't a whole lot of happiness around here. And I like seeing your smile, rare as it is these days."

She looks at him and there's a surge of affection that brings a tightness to her throat. She's missed him, more than she even realised. She can't imagine having this conversation with Marian.

"You're such an old romantic, Varric."

He heaves a sigh and reaches for his own pint. "It's a burden."

 

*

 

Hovering in the doorway, Bethany hasn't yet made her presence known. The Ambassador is speaking to a messenger. She looks displeased at whatever news is being relayed, eyebrows drawn together into a dark frown.

Bethany's about to retreat unseen, thinking this maybe isn't the most opportune moment to intrude, when Lady Montilyet spots her. The thunderous expression is schooled almost instantly into one of serenity.

With the gesture of a hand, the messenger is dismissed. The man—scarcely more than a boy, really—gives a wary look in passing as he leaves.

"Is this a bad time, Ambassador? I could return later."

"No, not at all. Please, do come in, Warden." There's a hint of strain in the other woman's smile and rigid posture.

"I wouldn't want to impose if you're busy."

"In all honesty I welcome the distraction."

Now it's Bethany's turn to frown. "Is everything all right?"

"A family matter. I do not wish to trouble you with it." Lady Montilyet folds her hands neatly on the desk in front of her. "How may I help?"

Bethany remembers the package she's carrying and thrusts it forward, a little too abruptly. "I have something for you."

The box is tied up with pale blue ribbon, the ends curled into fussy spirals. Very Orlesian. The Ambassador's lips part in surprise and Bethany begins to worry that she's being over-familiar. She hardly knows this woman, certainly not well enough to be giving her presents.

"For me?" The Ambassador takes the small box from Bethany and sets it on the desk. "May I open it now?"

Off Bethany's nod, Lady Montilyet pulls apart the ribbon and lifts the lid with the utmost care. A smile steals across her lips, a genuine one this time.

"I just wanted to thank you. For your hospitality. I heard you like little cakes so...." Bethany shrugs.

"Goodness, these look delicious!" The Ambassador looks up from the box. "Thank you, Warden. You have my gratitude."

"You're welcome, Lady Montilyet."

"Please, if we are to be friends I insist you call me Josephine."

"All right." Bethany stands straighter, bolstered. "But it goes both ways."

The other woman inclines her head. "Then we have an accord, Bethany."

The way her name is said—that _accent_ —makes Bethany quiver slightly. "Well, that was all. I'll let you get back to work."

She gives a small bow and is three paces across the room when Josephine calls out to her. She pauses, turns around. Josephine's toying with the ribbon, wrapping the satin material around her index finger.

"I was wondering, would you care to join me for tea this afternoon? That is, if you have no other plans."

"Oh! I—yes." Bethany clears her throat. Could she sound any more eager? "I'd like that."

"Wonderful. Shall we say three o'clock?"

"See you then. Josephine."

Another pleased smile. "A good day to you."

As soon as Bethany closes the door behind her she leans against it for a moment. A few disapproving stares are directed her way by the courtiers loitering in the main hall but she pays them no heed.

It occurs to her then that she's never been invited to tea before. Should she dress up? She has few items beyond her Warden robes, certainly nothing suitable for socialising in polite company.

Oh, _bugger_.

 

*

 

In the end she makes do with her Warden uniform. She spends some time mending the hem and several loose threads, polishing the various fastenings and buckles until they're as shiny as they'll ever be.

She combs her hair, washes her face, puts a tiny bit of rouge on her lips. She studies her appearance critically in a cracked mirror: not bad although her hair is in dire need of a trim. These days she wears it tied back off her face for the sake of practicality but today she lets it loose over her shoulders. It makes her look younger, an echo of the girl she used to be.

They take their tea in the war room, in an alcove containing a two-seater settee and a low table. The afternoon sunlight streams through the large windows, bathing the room in a warm glow and catching on the dust motes floating in the air.

As Josephine pours the tea into dainty little cups Bethany surveys the assortment of cakes and fancies laid out on the table. Amongst them are the pastries Bethany provided, artfully arranged on a fine china plate.

This is really not what she's used to but when Josephine passes her a teacup, smiling, Bethany's discomfort lessens. Their fingers brush in the exchange and they both glance away.

"Leliana told me you are acquainted from her time as a lay sister in Lothering."

"That's right, although I mostly avoided the chantry—for obvious reasons—but sometimes I would sneak in just to listen to her stories."

"She always did have a wonderful talent for storytelling," Josephine agrees wistfully. "It's a great shame she no longer shares it."

It doesn't surprise Bethany. The Inquisition's Spymaster seems a very different woman to the sweet and friendly chantry sister Bethany once knew. Not that she's in any position to cast judgement; some might look at her and think the same.

"Had you always lived in Lothering?" Josephine asks as she drops a sugar cube into her tea and stirs it with a spoon.

"Yes. My siblings and I were born there but my parents came from Kirkwall originally. Mother was high born, an Amell, and betrothed to the Comte de Launcet; Father was an apostate, a mercenary, although it's possible he may have been in the Kirkwall Circle for a time. They courted in secret, fell madly in love, but when Father was discovered by the Templars, he and Mother conspired to run away together to Ferelden. How they ended up in Lothering, of all places, I can't begin to fathom."

Her telling of it probably makes it sound more romantic than it was. It couldn't have been easy for them, Mother pregnant with their first child while on the run.

"My grandparents disowned Mother. She wrote to them when Marian was born but they never answered her letters. They wanted nothing to do with her or her children. They died when I was a newborn and my uncle, Gamlen, led Mother to believe they went to their graves ashamed of her. It wasn't true. We found documents—letters, a Will—in our family's old mansion. They forgave her, even left their fortune to her. By that time it was too late; Gamlen had frittered it all away on a gambling habit."

Josephine brings a hand to her chest. "Oh my, how awful."

"In the end Marian bought back the Amell estate with the proceeds from the Deep Roads expedition. At least Mother got to enjoy it for a short while." Bethany stares morosely into her own teacup. "Sorry. I'm spoiling this, aren't I? I'm sure you didn't invite me here to dredge up my sordid family history."

"Every family has its burdens, my own included." Josephine says softly. "The Montilyets were once one of the foremost mercantile families of Thedas."

The 'once' doesn't escape Bethany's notice. "What happened? If you don't mind my asking."

"There was a great scandal, more than a hundred years ago. Details are scant but I believe it involved an illicit romance between a Montilyet and a Du Paraquette, while both parties were promised to another. There was an attempted elopement, which ended in violence and a long-standing feud between the two houses. As punishment my ancestors were shunned at Court and forbidden from trading with Orlais."

"And that still stands?"

"Our reputation is restored, for the most part, but the injunction remains. For many months I've been trying to reverse the edict and re-establish our trading connections but progress is frustratingly slow."

Josephine sighs and reaches for her teacup. She takes a delicate sip before replacing the cup on the saucer in front of her. "But enough of my woes. Tell me, what was it like growing up in Lothering?"

"We lived on the outskirts of the village. We had a small plot of land, grew vegetables, kept chickens."

It was hardly idyllic but they were content there, even though Bethany spent much of her time avoiding the Templars. She knew them all by face and name, knew when to run and hide. And she always had her sister and brother to protect her, however much they grumbled about it.

"Then the Blight happened. Marian and Carver couldn't get away fast enough. They joined King Cailan's army and fought at Ostagar."

"Carver?"

"My twin." She picks up her cup, just to occupy her hands. A mistake because suddenly she can't stop trembling. She sets it down again clumsily, some of the liquid sloshing over the side. "He died as we fled the darkspawn. It was an ogre—the idiotic oaf just charged into the fray and... Maker." She shuts her eyes against the mental image of his broken body lying in the dirt, all life snuffed out of him in an instant. "I could've stopped it, somehow, if I hadn't been so frozen in fear."

She feels the gentle pressure of fingertips on the back of her hand. It's impossible to conceal the way her body jolts in response. How long has it been since anyone has touched her in kindness? She can't remember.

"He could be so cruel to me. Once, when I was a little girl, he nailed my braid to the bed. I loved him but most of the time I didn't like him. Isn't that terrible?" Bethany swallows thickly. "We just had to abandon him where he fell. There wasn't time for anything else."

Josephine's hand shifts, covers Bethany's and squeezes lightly. That simple gesture loosens something within her. She doesn't cry. She hasn't, not since she heard about Mother. All the same she allows herself to feel grief for Carver.

When Bethany opens her eyes Josephine is sitting nearer than she expects. Their knees are almost touching. This close, Josephine's perfume cocoons them in a fragrant bubble. There's sympathy and understanding in her grey eyes.

"He must have been very brave."

Stupidly so. Carver was always trying to prove himself. Mother was livid when he enlisted in the army but he wasn't going to let Marian steal all the glory. At least it allowed him a way to focus his resentment. And he excelled as a soldier: he was strong, knew how to wield a sword.

Sometimes she wonders what he might have made of himself in Kirkwall.

Bethany attempts a small smile. "I've done it again, haven't I? This was meant to be a nice afternoon. I'm afraid I'm not congenial company."

"Quite the contrary. I find your unvarnished honesty to be a refreshing change." Josephine lifts her hand from Bethany's to reach for a plate full of tiny sandwiches cut into triangles. She offers them to Bethany. "Are you hungry?"

As if on cue, Bethany's stomach rumbles loudly. Her eyes dart to Josephine in embarrassment but the Ambassador is smiling, apparently not in the least bit offended. "Famished. It's a Warden thing, another unwanted side effect."

"Then, please, eat. Otherwise I will devour all these cakes by myself and not feel sorry for it."

Bethany laughs quietly, appreciative of the moment of levity. Josephine's answering smile—small, gratified—is like a balm.


	3. Chapter 3

She's sitting at the rickety table that passes for a desk, studying the Grey Warden tome the Inquisitor had recovered from Hargrave Keep (a densely-written history of the First Blight, dry as ancient dust) when there's a gentle knock at the door. Glad of the interruption, she marks her place in the book with a scrap of parchment and goes to answer.

Opening the door reveals a welcome sight:

"Josephine." Dazzling in gold and blue in the morning sunshine, a gentle smile gracing her lips. So blindingly lovely it's almost painful to look at her.

"Good morning, Bethany."

Josephine's eyes make a subtle sweep over her and Bethany remembers dimly that she isn't fully dressed. She's decent enough, clad in leather breeches and a cotton long-sleeved shirt, but she's barefoot and her Warden robes are draped over the chair. She doesn't even want to think about what her hair must look like.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" she asks, running a surreptitious hand through her hair and catching on a snag behind her ear.

"I merely decided to take a stroll along the battlements and found myself at your door."

"Oh." Bethany isn't sure which part is more suspect. It's not even mid-morning yet and Josephine's been known to work straight through until dinnertime without a break. When she does take a respite it's normally in Skyhold's garden. "Well, would you like to come in?"

Josephine smiles, touching Bethany's arm as she steps past her.

The room is messy, the bed unmade, and the fireplace hasn't been swept in days. A tray of food from last night's dinner sits on the table, a few bones and scraps remaining.

"I wasn't expecting any visitors, otherwise I would've made the place more presentable."

_And myself, for that matter._

"It's quite all right. Having grown up with three brothers I assure you I've witnessed far worse."

Josephine's gaze takes in the few small personal effects on the bedside table: Mother's betrothal portrait, an amulet given to her by Father before he died, a bundle of letters from Isabela tied up with string. Her staff, recently fitted with a new grip by Harritt, is propped against the wall.

"I was surprised to see you at evensong yesterday," Josephine says, turning to face Bethany.

"Mm, I tend to go to the chapel before dawn. It's quieter at that time."

"Ah, so you are Andrastian. I wasn't certain."

"I used to be very devout. For the longest time I believed there had to be a reason that I had magic. The Maker's will, a higher purpose, or what have you. It was the only way I could reconcile this supposed _gift_ when all I wanted was to be normal."

Bethany wanders over to the bed and sits, reaching for the threadbare socks discarded on the rumpled blankets. She pulls them on, quickly followed by her boots, before Josephine can see the poorly darned toes.

"After I joined the Wardens I had a crisis of faith, I suppose. I had so much anger, at Marian, at my parents for coddling me since I was a child. I rejected the idea that there was a Maker-given grand plan for me. Everything that happened was just bad luck, being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"In your circumstances I may have questioned my beliefs, too." Grey eyes trace her curiously. "And now?"

"The Chant of Light, the prayers, they're just rituals and words. Does it matter whether I believe, if I find comfort in them?"

"I think... one's faith, or lack thereof, is a deeply personal matter. You're a good and honourable person, Bethany, regardless of your acceptance of the existence of the Maker."

Ever the diplomat. It brings an unbidden smile to Bethany's lips.

"While I am here..." She watches as Josephine reaches into one of the pockets of her brocade vest and pulls out a small locket on a thin gold chain. "This was given to me by my mother before I left for finishing school in Val Royeaux many years ago. It holds a thimbleful of sand from the beach near Antiva City and has always brought me solace when I am homesick or otherwise melancholy. I would like for you to have it."

Bethany's brows shoot up. "I—I can't take that, Josephine."

"Forgive me for saying so but you seem so very—" Josephine halts, presses her lips together. "I only hoped that in moments of disquiet it might serve as a reminder that you are... cared for. Perhaps I am over-stepping the boundaries of our friendship."

Something in Bethany's chest seizes in response to those words. She realises that her silence could be misconstrued, making her seem ungrateful when that couldn't be further from the truth. "No. That's not—I simply meant that... This locket must be precious to you."

"It is. But I choose to give it to you as a token of my esteem."

Esteem. What does that even _mean_? Admiration one has for a friend or something more?

"Then I... humbly accept."

Josephine holds one end of the chain in each hand. "May I?"

Bethany watches, waits with bated breath, as Josephine steps close. She tries to control the shiver that travels down her spine when her hair is gently swept to the side, is even less successful at hiding the second one when Josephine's fingers brush against her neck as she fiddles with the clasp. It takes a few attempts and as each second passes Bethany's nerves become more frayed.

At last Josephine stands back to admire the necklace. She bites her lip. "It suits you."

There's something a little distracted about the Ambassador's tone. Bethany glances down, notices the way the locket is nestled at the top of her cleavage, visible above the laces at the bust of her open-neck shirt. She looks up again to see grey eyes still rooted to her chest.

Is she...? She _is_. Josephine is staring at her breasts. There's really no mistaking it.

That knowledge makes Bethany's body react, quite of its own volition. Another look downwards confirms that, indeed, her nipples are showing, which only makes things worse. She hears Josephine's shaky intake of breath.

"Um, thank you. I really do appreciate it."

The sound of Bethany's voice appears to shake Josephine out of her reverie. The Ambassador averts her gaze quickly, instead fixing it upon a small gap in the stonework that's been stuffed with rags to stop the draught.

Bethany gets up and makes a show of rubbing her arms. "Maker, it's chilly in here. Better get a fire going, eh?"

She's cringing at herself but she doesn't know how else to deal with this awkwardness. She crosses to the hearth and conjures a small flame in her palm, tossing it at the dying embers. She flings a few chopped logs into the fire, watching them burn for a moment.

When she turns, Josephine startles slightly, eyes flicking up to meet Bethany's. There's an almost guilty expression on her face, as if Bethany's caught her doing something she shouldn't be. With the gloomy lighting it's difficult to tell but it looks like Josephine might be blushing.

Why would—? Oh. These breeches _are_ rather form-fitting.

She folds her arms over chest because, really, this is not helping the nipple situation. "Can I get you something? A drink or something to eat?"

"Oh, no, thank you. I—I should return to my duties." Josephine doesn't make any movement to leave. She takes in the measure of Bethany for a few seconds. "Do you think you might attend the evening liturgy again tonight?"

The way she says it, the soft hesitance, makes it sound like she's asking something altogether different. The heat that suffuses Bethany's skin has nothing to do with the fire beginning to roar in the hearth.

"That depends," Bethany answers, her own eyes lingering on the other woman. "Will I see you there?"

It comes out far more suggestive than she intends but it earns her a slow smile from Josephine, a flutter of dark lashes as the Ambassador backs away. "Perhaps. Another time, Bethany."

Once Josephine's gone, Bethany flops back onto the bed. She exhales roughly and closes her eyes, trying to get her racing heartbeat under control.

She laughs, delighted. This is madness. Utter madness.

 

*

 

That evening Bethany slips into the chapel just as Mother Giselle begins to recite the Canticle of Benedictions.

It's all but standing room only in here and Bethany cranes her neck to look around for Josephine. She starts to think the Ambassador's been delayed by Inquisition business until she spots her at the far right of the room. Josephine sits on a pew, at the end nearest the wall.

"Excuse me. Sorry. Coming through," Bethany whispers as she pushes her way through the crowded space, earning a few muttered complaints and glares.

Finally, she reaches Josephine. Bethany takes a steadying breath and taps the other woman on the shoulder. The Ambassador's mild surprise gives way to a smile.

"Hello. Room for one more?"

Josephine turns to the man beside her: "Pardon me, Ser. Do you mind?" She makes a gesture to indicate he shuffle along.

It's cramped to say the least but there's just enough room for the two of them.

"I had assumed you'd changed your mind."

"And stand you up, Josephine? Never."

She's aware of Josephine's gaze upon her but Bethany keeps her eyes forward, focused on the Chantry Mother.

_Blessed are they who stand before_  
_The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._  
_Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

This verse she knows by heart. It's been a mantra to her since she became a Warden, the idea of sacrificing one's life for a righteous cause. It wasn't virtue that drove her down this path but the notion gives it meaning, somehow. More so than her life being the summation of a series of cruel tricks of fate.

_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.  
In their blood the Maker's will is written._

She's so absorbed in Mother Giselle's words that she doesn't notice Josephine's hand resting beside hers on the bench between them, not until she feels the brush of a pinkie against her own. At first she thinks the touch is a mistake but it happens a second time a few moments later. After the third, it can only be intentional.

By now she's painfully aware of the warm press of Josephine's hip against her own, burning hot despite the layers of cloth and leather that separate them.

If it was any other woman Bethany would know what to do: she'd invite her back to her room. But this is Josephine. She's kind and gracious and so, so achingly beautiful. Not some notch on a bedpost, nothing so vulgar as that.

The risk of causing offence, tarnishing whatever's growing between them, is far too great.

She must tarry too long because finally Josephine's hand shifts away.

 

*

 

The kiss, when it happens, is entirely accidental.

In the span of weeks they've graduated from small, casual touches that punctuate conversation to a hug in greeting, a peck on the cheek to accompany 'farewell' and 'safe journey'.

It's during one such goodbye—Bethany's to accompany the Iron Bull, Varric and Cole to the Storm Coast to deal with darkspawn activity in the area—that they both turn their faces at the same time, only for their lips to collide, finding the other's mouth instead of a cheek.

Neither steps away. They remain close, breathing one another in.

Bethany worries that any sudden movement will shatter the fragile stillness of the moment. She daren't speak. Wouldn't know what to say, in any case. This, Josephine, is everything she wants and is too afraid to ask for.

She feels Josephine's grip on her shoulders fall away and her stomach drops like a stone. Then there are hands on her cheeks, Josephine looking at her as if she's something to be cherished.

"Oh, my darling. Bethany," Josephine whispers before kissing her mouth.

It's hardly more than a soft press of lips to begin with, just enough to make Bethany crave more.

She touches Josephine's waist, tugging her closer as their lips part against each other. She feels herself slowly come alive, becoming more than this husk of a person, as if Josephine is little by little breathing vitality into her bones once more.

She isn't sure how she comes to be leaning against the desk, Josephine's fingers edging beneath the collar of her uniform and setting her pulse fluttering as they kiss. Not that Bethany's complaining, except to realise that they could've been doing this sooner.

When they finally part for air Bethany feels bereft at the loss of contact. She stares at the other woman in breathless wonderment, taking in the flush on Josephine's cheeks, the spittle-wet shine of her lips, grey eyes darkened with want.

"I hope you'll forgive my boldness. I am not usually so forward with my affections."

"I'm glad one of us was. I've wanted to kiss you for ages."

"You have?" There's surprise and gratification evident in Josephine's voice. "Why didn't you?"

So many reasons. "I wasn't sure if my advances would be welcome. Not everyone wants to get close to a Warden."

Josephine purses her lips. "I know I am not the most accomplished at flirting but I thought I'd made my interest abundantly clear. Yet it seems I've encountered the one person in all Thedas more oblivious than I."

Bethany opens her mouth to defend herself because that wasn't precisely the reason for her reticence but the Ambassador places a finger over her lips to silence her.

"Therefore, let me be unequivocal. I certainly wouldn't object to our becoming more..." Josephine pauses, gazes up through her lashes, "intimate."

Sweet Andraste.

Bethany feels heat creep up her neck. "Oh. Oh, that's—good, then." Her mind feels addled, drunk on the taste of Josephine's lips. Somewhere amidst her disjointed thoughts she remembers that the Inquisitor's party is waiting for her in the lower courtyard. She groans quietly. "I wish I didn't have to leave but—"

Josephine nods. "Duty calls. Allow me to give you one more kiss to sustain you for the journey ahead."

Who is Bethany to refuse? She leans up, bringing their mouths together. While the previous kiss was sweet, this one is full of promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken a few liberties with the Skyhold chapel, it being less dilapidated here than it is in-game.


	4. Chapter 4

The coastline is strewn with shipwrecks, the debris of ill-fated crossings of the Waking Sea.

It makes Bethany think of her own journey from Gwaren to Kirkwall all those years ago and she shudders at the memory: two weeks spent in the hold with a hundred other refugees, wretching into a bucket as Mother held her hair back.

It's safe to say she is _not_ cut out for a life at sea.

Still, there's a certain rugged beauty to this storm-battered place, the way the waves have carved tall needles and jagged steps into the cliffs over the ages. Beyond the shore, to the south and east, the lands are verdant and thickly forested.

They're not here for sightseeing, though.

At the north end of the stony beach she senses darkspawn nearby. Sure enough, they find a small band of hurlocks lurking within a ruined dwarven outpost hewn out of the cliff face.

They're dispatched quickly and for the first time in weeks Bethany feels as if she's on solid ground. Corypehus, the disappearance of her fellow Wardens, everything that's happened since the Inquisitor recruited her, she can't begin to make sense of. Killing darkspawn is second nature; she knows what to do.

Bull wrenches his great axe from the body of one of the hurlocks, almost cleaving the corpse in two. He juts his chin towards her. "Nice work there, Beth. Except for the part where you nearly singed my horns with that fireball."

She snorts. _As if_.

The others stand back as she uses her magic to seal the cave-in where the darkspawn had entered.

"One down, three to go," she says with a grim smile.

 

*

 

By midday Bethany's so drenched that she's forgotten the meaning of the word 'dry'.

There are puddles inside her boots. Her hair, scraped back into a bedraggled ponytail, is plastered to her neck. Water drips from the ends underneath her collar and down between her shoulder blades.

What she wouldn't give for the arid heat of the Anderfels right now. Truly, she feels like the walking embodiment of misery and her companions don't seem to be faring any better.

Bull takes point, his mouth downturned in a grimace as he stomps ahead, splattering up mud in his wake. Varric and Cole trail behind him, unusually quiet. The spirit's oversize hat doesn't seem quite so comical anymore since it protects most of his head and shoulders from the lashing rain. In situations like this practicality certainly trumps fashion, though Bethany's sure Madame de Fer would disagree.

After they clear the third cave of darkspawn they decide to make camp there, rather than endure the elements for the night. Putting up with the spiders they hear scuttling in the dark is still vastly preferable to the torrential downpour outside.

Their meagre, sputtering fire barely wards off the chill and an overcooked meal of gristly deepstalker does little to elevate their mood. They turn in early but Bethany can't sleep for the wind whistling and echoing off the cave walls.

In the dark her thoughts turn to happier things:

Josephine in her office, brows drawn together in concentration as she leans over a pile of documents; the way a smile lights her face when Bethany interrupts her work. The two of them taking tea, ensconced in their little alcove, the warmth of Josephine's knee against her own as she listens to the Ambassador relate the latest petty grievances of Skyhold's noble guests. Strolls in the garden at dusk, Josephine's hand curling around her elbow. Bethany can almost feel the phantom pressure of fingers on her forearm and it makes her chest ache.

Since their kiss all these small things have taken on new significance.

Her mind lingers over the curve of Josephine's lips, the changeable colour of her eyes. Pictures how Josephine would look with her hair loosened from its braid, dark curls unravelling halfway down her bare back.

Maker's breath.

Now she'll never get to sleep.

 

*

 

It's as they're breaking camp that Bethany notices Cole staring at her oddly. Well, more so than usual. It's unnerving.

"What is it, Cole?" she asks, losing patience with it eventually. She's tired and irritable, her boots still sodden despite being left beside the fire all night.

He has that startled nug expression, as if he can't quite believe that she's acknowledged his presence.

"Precise words and sharp eyes, she bends under her hands. Gold and blue fall away. The desk is sturdier than it looks."

She whirls, mortified. Drops her pack on the ground without a care for the contents spilling out. "Cole! That's private! You can't..."

It hadn't occurred to her that spirits don't sleep, that Cole might be privy to her nocturnal imaginings.

Varric steps smoothly between them. "Remember we talked about this, Kid? You can't go reaching into people's heads and airing their thoughts for everyone to hear. Friends don't do that to each other."

Varric gives an apologetic lift of his eyebrows and ushers Cole away.

"She's very angry," she hears Cole mumble and she scrubs a hand over her face in dismay.

"So... You and Josephine, huh? Nice."

Bull's leaning against the wall with a smirk on his face. He laughs when she scowls at him, a deep rumble that sets her teeth on edge. She lets out a slow breath and crouches to retrieve her pack, stuffing a few stray items of loot back inside.

"Whatever vulgar things you're thinking, don't."

He holds his massive palms up. "Hey, she's a classy lady. Always real polite. And someone that buttoned up? Usually the opposite between the sheets."

" _Bull_."

"I'm just saying: good catch."

What does he want her to say? Thank him for his approval?

"Look. Just _please_ don't mention this to anyone, all right?" The likelihood of Sera running her mouth off or drawing something crude on one of Josephine's official reports is all too worryingly plausible. "It's personal and the last thing I want is for Josephine to be embarrassed."

"I get it, Beth. But Josephine's tougher than you think. I mean, she's friends with Leliana and Leliana is fucking scary."

Well. He has a point.

"Besides, people are going to figure it out sooner or later. I've seen her watching you train with that fancy stick of yours in the courtyard a couple of times. Watching your ass, at least."

She sits back on her haunches. Any outrage she feels on Josephine's behalf is quickly surpassed by flattery. "Really?"

He winks, or so it seems. Difficult to tell because of the eyepatch. "Can't blame her. It's a nice view."

He pushes off from the cave wall and stoops to lift his pack, slinging it over his shoulder. "What other people think about you is none of your business. Life's too short and brutal to give a crap."

She watches him swagger towards the entrance. She isn't sure what's more disturbing: that the Iron Bull is giving her advice or the fact she's actually considering following it.

 

*

 

The rain eases to an intermittent drizzle, patches of blue sky starting to peek through the cloud cover, and with it the party's mood lightens. Varric even launches into a story as they trudge over water-logged ground.

He tells the one about Marian helping (hindering) Aveline to woo Guardsman Donnic. Bethany's heard it before but every account of it embellishes the story with a little more detail, another layer of exaggeration and finesse, until she's sure not even Varric himself could recount the true version of events. 'Creative license,' he calls it; bullshitting as an art form, in other words.

Like so many things she missed out on, Bethany wishes she'd been there to see the story unfold first-hand.

"Talk about the blind leading the blind," Varric says. "Hawke doesn't have a romantic bone in her body so why Aveline asked for her help, I'll never know."

That isn't entirely fair. Marian's just... very direct. A fact most people seem willing to overlook on account of her beauty. Growing up Bethany had always been slightly jealous of Marian's icy blue eyes and porcelain skin, how Marian could be so brusque and everyone would still fall at her feet. Marian inherited Mother's looks, if not her kind temperament, while Bethany more resembles Father. She has his unremarkable brown eyes, darker colouring. And magic, as if she could forget.

"This Aveline... she's a redhead, right?" Bull asks.

Before Varric can answer, Bethany interrupts, "Darkspawn up ahead."

It's a tougher fight this time: a hurlock alpha among their number. Bull and Varric concentrate their attacks on the big one while Bethany tackles the weaker genlocks, freezing them in place with a Cone of Cold spell. Cole materialises behind one, twin daggers brought swiftly down. The darkspawn is obliterated, shards of ice flying every which way.

The battle flows in their favour, the alpha buckling under the force of Bull's punishing blows. When the last of the genlocks falls Bethany turns her attention to aiding her companions. She thumps her staff into the ground, drawing focus from it, and conjures a ball of flame in her palm.

Just as she readies her arm to lob the fireball, she feels something sharp hit her side and the sheer force of it knocks her onto her back.

"Shit!" Varric's voice. "Archer on the cliff. I'll take him out."

For a moment she lies there amid the wet grass, winded. It's only when she tries to sit up does she feel it: agony so intense it leaves her choking for air.

She cranes her neck down to look. There's an arrow sticking out of her waist, just above her right hip. Blood staining her uniform. She touches the wound gingerly, gritting her teeth against the white-hot pain that lances through her, and her fingers come away red.

She squeezes her eyes shut and when she opens them again she sees Cole peering down at her through pale blonde hair.

"Kid, give her some room." Varric appears in his place. "You're going to be fine, Sunshine. Just stay still."

The arrow is poisoned. She can feel the toxin moving sluggishly through her body, darkness creeping from the edges of her vision.

Maker, that it should come to this. She's fought dozens of darkspawn at a time before, never thought she'd be picked off by a lone hurlock archer.

"Tell Josephine... Tell her I—"

"No." Varric's brow furrows. He's never looked more serious. "Tell her yourself once we're back at Skyhold."

"Varric."

"No. You hang in there, you hear me?"

She tries very hard to keep her eyes open but her eyelids feels so heavy. Perhaps if she could just rest for a little while, it'll pass.

There's the sensation of someone's hand on her face, slapping her cheek, but it feels distant somehow.

Behind her lids there's only darkness and she welcomes it, unafraid.

 

*

 

The first thing Bethany becomes aware of is how warm she is. The second, the aching of her joints. She feels as if she's been trampled by a bruffalo, stiff and sore all over.

She groans quietly and hears what sounds like a chair being scraped back, quick footsteps approaching.

A soft palm presses to her cheek. "Try not to move. You're safe now, my darling."

That voice. Is she dreaming? Her eyes blink open and it takes a moment to adjust to the daylight. She looks up into Josephine's face and her heart trips.

"Josephine." Parched, Bethany's voice is barely more than a croak.

"Here, have some water." A goblet is brought to her lips and she drinks gratefully. "Slowly. There."

After setting the cup back down on the bedside cabinet Josephine dabs at Bethany's chin with a handkerchief, mopping up a few spilled drops.

Bethany looks around. She doesn't recognise her surroundings. A few tapestries hang from the stone walls, a bookcase and and a desk sit in the corner. Judging by the large pile of papers on the desk, Josephine had been working until a few moments ago. In front of the blazing fireplace there's an armchair, a blanket neatly folded and draped over the back of it.

These must be Josephine's quarters, Bethany realises. She's in Josephine's bed. And she has no recollection of how she came be here.

"What happened?" Bethany asks, almost afraid to find out.

"You really don't know?" Off the slow shake of Bethany's head, Josephine continues. "You were wounded while fighting darkspawn."

"I remember that part but afterwards... nothing."

"You were hardly lucid when you arrived at Skyhold. The poison, I believe. Fortunately the arrow avoided any internal organs and the surgeon was able to remove it. She wanted you to remain in the infirmary but I insisted you be brought here once you were stable."

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Almost two days."

Two days! Her eyes widen suddenly. "And the others? Are they all right?"

"They're unharmed." Josephine runs a hand over Bethany's brow, soothing her. "Although the Inquisitor and Cassandra had to intervene when Viscountess Hawke learned of your encounter. I believe she threatened the Iron Bull with dismemberment."

"Sounds just like Marian."

They look at each other wordlessly for a few seconds and Josephine reaches for her hand, threading their fingers together, palm flat against Bethany's own. "When I saw you, Bull carrying you in his arms as if you weighed nothing at all, I... I was so frightened."

Bethany remains silent. She watches Josephine's face; anguish, worry and relief chasing each other in quick succession.

"The thought that I might have lost you..."

She tugs lightly on their joined hands, pulling Josephine closer to sit on the bed. The movement causes a sharp twinge in Bethany's side but she does her best to hide the discomfort.

"I'm alive." The 'for now' is left unsaid. She tightens her grip on Josephine's hand. It's solid, warm in her own. She stares into grey eyes that are as dark and turbulent as the Storm Coast sky.

"We've only known each other a few short months but, goodness, you are _so_ dear to me, Bethany Hawke."

Hearing those words makes Bethany light-headed. "I feel the same. About you." It's too soon to reveal more but she feels the truth of it. "May I kiss you?"

Josephine smiles and it's so lovely, so tremulous yet full of hope. "Yes. Please."

They let go of each other's hand and Josephine leans across, bracing herself on one arm, careful not to jostle Bethany's side. She hovers for a moment, their lips almost but not quite touching. Then they're kissing, mouths opening slowly to each other, exchanging sighs and silent reassurances of _I'm here_ , _I'm yours_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I have Bull quote RuPaul in this chapter? Yes, yes I did.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in the two months since the last chapter I got horribly distracted by The 100 and Clexa, in particular. I'm sorry?

Since Bethany awoke, Josephine's been fretting and fussing like a mother hen; plumping the pillows, checking the blankets are tucked in neatly and securely, never straying far from her bedside. When a bowl of broth is sent up from the kitchens Josephine perches on the bed, blows gently on the steaming liquid and brings the spoon to Bethany's lips.

The intimacy of it is unsettling, the way Josephine's knuckles graze her chin. She's a Warden, for Andraste's sake, and she's been far more grievously wounded in the past without the benefit of having such a solicitous nursemaid. But the Ambassador takes to this role like she does everything else: with unshakeable determination.

Once every last drop of soup is gone Josephine offers to read to her. She listens with only half an ear, allowing the words to wash over her. Instead her focus is on Josephine, the shape of her lips as they form each syllable, glimpsing the flash of a tongue as it presses behind her teeth. The sound of her voice, the gentle lilt of it, raises gooseflesh on Bethany's exposed arms.

Josephine sees her shiver and sets the book aside. "Shall I fetch another blanket?"

"No, thank you. I'm all right." Bethany burrows a little further under the covers. "Much as I'm enjoying your company, surely you must have better things to do?" She eyes the stack of documents sitting neglected on the desk. "I know you. You get restless if you leave your office unattended for more than half an hour."

"Leliana and the Inquisitor are quite aware that I'm indisposed these next few days. Commander Cullen will handle any issues that arise in my absence."

One eyebrow hoists slowly. "Really? Cullen?"

"While not renowned for his tact, the Commander is more than capable of standing his ground with quarrelsome nobles." Josephine's conviction falters slightly. "In any case, I will deal with damage limitation later."

"You really don't need to do this, you know."

The objection is met with a sharp glance of rebuke. "And how am I to concentrate on my duties while you suffer in pain? No, Bethany, you're not as expert at hiding it as you think you are."

Bethany fidgets with the frilly lace edge of the blanket. "I don't want to be a burden. You have enough to contend with as it is." She tries for levity. "It's bad enough I've taken up so much of your time but taking over your bed, too? That's unforgivably rude."

"I... had considered sharing but I didn't wish to be presumptuous. Or exacerbate your injury, for that matter."

There's a lull, one that's charged with suggestion, as they regard one another. Bethany's eyes rake over Josephine's face, lingering over parted lips before dipping down. She follows the curve of jaw where it meets the elegant slope of neck and wonders how soft and warm the skin there must be. Then, shaking off these thoughts, she meets Josephine's gaze.

A faint blush tinges Josephine's cheeks as she stares back at Bethany beneath dark lashes.

Bethany swallows. Her throat feels suddenly dry and tight. "I wouldn't mind if you did. Share the bed, that is." The small smile that curves across Josephine's lips in response fuels something daring within Bethany. "Rest with me a while?"

Josephine appears hesitant but she gives a slight nod. Toeing off her slippers she settles by Bethany's good side, shifting closer when Bethany's arm goes around her shoulders. A hand comes to rest on Bethany's sternum, toying with the locket still fastened about her neck. The gentle brush of fingertips over the thin cotton of her nightshirt makes Bethany's stomach flutter.

She presses her nose to the crown of Josephine's head, closing her eyes as she inhales the mingled scents of the perfumed water Josephine bathes with and the lacquer used to smooth her hair.

When Bethany sleeps, for the first time in months, she isn't plagued by dreams.

 

*

 

On the way down to breakfast Bethany spots Marian on the ramparts with the Inquisitor. The pair appear to be having a heated discussion that ceases abruptly when they notice Bethany coming towards them. Marian's expression is thunderous but the Inquisitor offers Bethany a tight smile in greeting.

"Viscountess, Warden, if you'll excuse me." A stiff bow and he's gone, hands clenched at his sides as he marches away.

"That didn't look too friendly," Bethany remarks, bemused. She leans against the wall, enjoying the warmth that seeps into her shoulder from the stone.

"Mm? Oh, politics. Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about, Bethy."

She regards Marian with narrowed eyes, taking in the rigid set of her jaw, the white-knuckle grip on the knife sheathed at her belt. "What are you up to?"

Cold blue eyes stare at her evenly. Marian remains silent for so long that Bethany thinks she isn't going to answer. With a sigh Bethany pushes off from the wall and starts to walk away.

"I could ask the same of you."

Bethany turns, frowning. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I hear you're bedding the Ambassador."

There were bound to be rumours; she'd spent days recovering in Josephine's room, feverish for some of it. Nothing untoward had happened—Josephine had even excused herself from the room whenever the healer came to change her bandages—and Bethany flushes at the insinuation.

Marian's smirk is goading. "Then you don't deny it."

"Not that it's any of your business but we haven't—"

"Oh, so you haven't fucked yet? Well, best get on that. Between Corypheus and your inevitable Calling, time's a-wasting, little Sister."

Bethany tamps down on the anger that surges within her. It isn't worth giving Marian the satisfaction when she's in a mood like this. Her voice is admirably calm when she speaks. "You're horrible at times, you know that? I always made excuses for you because of Carver and Mother and the way things ended between you and Anders." She sees the way Marian bristles but she carries on. "I just can't do it any more. You're my sister but, Maker, you're poisonous to be around."

"Bethany—"

She takes a few steps away then stops to look over her shoulder at Marian. "And another thing: don't ever speak that way again about Josephine. She's been nothing but respectful to you. I love her and, frankly, I don't want or need your opinion on the matter."

She registers the way Marian's eyebrow lifts pointedly after a second and when she turns back slowly she sees Josephine hesitating on the nearby steps. Josephine's eyes are wide, a hand hovering close to her mouth. For once Marian refrains from making an obnoxious comment and merely departs with a sideways glance.

"Oh. Did you hear all of that?"

Josephine nods once, hand dropping back down to her side. Bethany searches her face, sees her lips turn up slightly as if she's holding back a smile. "May we talk somewhere in private?"

 

*

 

Bethany's room is closest.

As soon as the door is shut Josephine crowds Bethany back against it. She peppers Bethany's face and throat with quick, eager kisses as she clings to Bethany's shoulders. Bethany's chest heaves, as if she can't quite get enough air into her lungs.

She is slow to react, desire moving sluggishly through her veins. She grips Josephine's hips tightly, fingers digging into the gold sash around her waist, pulling Josephine flush against her.

"That wasn't how I wanted to tell you. I—" Her words are halted by Josephine's mouth.

"It doesn't matter," Josephine sighs after a minute, maybe ten. "Oh, my darling. I love you, too."

The desperate edge to the words makes something coil within Bethany's stomach, makes her heart lurch painfully. This _wanting_ is akin to a physical ache, a hurt that racks down to the marrow of her bones.

She kisses Josephine, swallowing a soft gasp. She turns them around, pressing Josephine against the door, pinning her with her body. Warm fingers splay across Bethany's shoulders, restlessly moving up her neck, over her cheeks, eventually loosening her hair from its tie.

They kiss until Bethany's lips are swollen and tingling, until they're both robbed of breath and rational thought and forced to part.

Josephine touches Bethany's face, lets her fingers trail over the arch of her brow, the bump in the bridge of her nose where it once was broken and healed slightly crooked, moving almost reverently over the outline of her mouth. She watches Josephine draw the plush fullness of her bottom lip between her teeth. The sight of grey eyes darkened by longing sets Bethany's pulse racing but she waits, patiently allowing the exploration.

Those eyes dart up to meet her own. "I want this. I want you," Josephine says, letting the significance hang in the tiny heated space between them.

"Josephine." The name is more an expulsion of air against soft lips than anything else but it contains a myriad unspoken questions.

A whisper, "Please."

When their mouths come together once more the kiss is slow, almost hesitant. The gentle push and pull of it leaves Bethany staggered, heart thrumming behind her ribs. She lifts a hand from Josephine's waist, letting it curl around the nape of Josephine's neck. She's trembling. They both are.

This is hardly Bethany's first time but she's so nervous and excited (and, admittedly, out of practice) that it may as well be. She's never been with someone who mattered, not like Josephine, not like this. Her fingers are clumsy as they fumble with buckles and fastenings, carelessly shedding fine brocade and silks with little regard for where they land.

When Josephine stands in nothing more than a corset and pantalettes, Bethany lets her shaking hands trace the soft skin of Josephine's arms, trailing over her shoulders and the plump swells of her breasts. Josephine shivers under her touch, chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Maker," Bethany groans. She wants to touch _everywhere_. She wants to venerate this woman with her hands and her mouth. She would worship Josephine, gladly devote her life to satisfying Josephine's every whim and desire.

It should trouble Bethany, the strength of her feelings when she has no right to lay claim to an impossible future. There's only the here and now. It has to be enough.

Josephine is only slightly steadier as she divests Bethany of each article of her worn Warden uniform. She has only a moment to feel ashamed at the state of her underwear, plain and threadbare, before Josephine strips her of it, unravelling the breast band and tugging the smalls down her legs.

She watches Josephine's dark gaze flick over her, the way Josephine's lips part soundlessly. Bethany's body is lean from years of combat and limited rations, the puppy fat of youth long gone, replaced by sinew and muscle. The rapt admiration makes Bethany stand a little taller.

They kiss again and this time Bethany coaxes Josephine's arms around her shoulders before hoisting her up, carrying her towards the bed and ignoring the slight twinge of her injury. She puts Josephine down gently and straddles her hips. Josephine's smile, the brightness of her eyes, remind Bethany of that first dazzle of sunlight upon exiting the Deep Roads. Warm, startling, making something bloom in her chest.

Josephine reaches for her, threading fingers into her hair and against her scalp. "Come here," she murmurs as she pulls Bethany down before catching her mouth with her own. With her other hand Josephine skates down Bethany's back, running over the notches of her spine and the curve of her bottom. A sudden, possessive squeeze has Bethany pitching forward, breathing out roughly into the humid depths of Josephine's mouth as her hips roll down against the other woman's.

That hand soon rounds Bethany's hip, slides confidently between her legs. Bethany swears, hips jumping at the contact. Josephine smiles into their kiss and Bethany should've known that the Ambassador would be just as take-charge in this realm as she is in every other matter.

For a second Bethany wonders if she's made the grave error of underestimating Josephine. She had supposed Josephine would be coy and restrained, that passion would have to be teased from her. The press of fingers against slippery flesh causes Bethany to gasp and brings her sharply back to the present moment. She was so very wrong.

 

*

 

Josephine sighs in contentment, eyelids shut, as she lies on her side. Bethany looks at her, trying to commit the tableau before her to memory. The chignon Josephine habitually wears is half undone, loosened curls spilling over her shoulder in an almost artfully messy way. Tawny skin glows beneath the thin shards of sunlight that spill through the arrow loops in the walls. She is bare, except for the blanket bunched over her hips and legs, one naked thigh peeking from the covers. 

It is the sight of that, more than anything else, that makes Bethany's mouth dry, her heart race again. Her fingers itch to touch but Josephine is exhausted and Bethany knows she should let the other woman rest for a while. 

Perhaps Josephine senses the intense scrutiny because eventually she stretches her arms above her head, drawing Bethany's gaze to the constellations of freckles that dot her torso. This time Bethany is weak and allows herself to reach out, the tips of her fingers skimming over Josephine's stomach, chest and collarbones, following her skin like a map. 

Josephine shifts under her touch and opens her eyes. She smiles and it steals the breath from Bethany's lungs. 

"How do you feel?" Bethany asks. 

"Full of light and love." Josephine lifts her hand to tuck a few errant hairs behind Bethany's ear then sets her palm gently on her cheek. "And you?" 

She can smell herself on Josephine and it stirs a primal part of her, causes heat to coil in her belly. She sees it reflected in Josephine, the tender look in grey eyes fast giving way to rekindled desire. "I want you again." 

An amused huff of breath escapes Josephine's still smiling lips. "It seems the tales of Grey Warden stamina are no exaggeration." 

Bethany slides closer, hand drifting down to clutch at Josephine's hip and pull her nearer until there is nothing separating their bodies but the rumpled blanket. "What tales?" Bethany says, leaning in to press her lips to Josephine's throat. She's discovered how sensitive Josephine is there and lets her teeth scrape against the pulse point. 

Josephine shivers beside her, a hum resonating against Bethany's mouth. "Oh, the—the stuff of romance novels." An indecent moan is loosened when Bethany drags her tongue over a particularly responsive spot. "In fact, Cassandra recommended a serial on the subject." 

Bethany contains the snort at the thought of Seeker Pentaghast doling out advice on questionable literature, at the idea of Josephine approaching her in the first place. Bethany would've liked to have been privy to _that_ conversation. 

"And how does this serial compare to reality?" Bethany noses further down Josephine's throat, nipping and licking at the perspiration that's breaking out over Josephine's skin. 

The hand that had been resting on Bethany's cheek slips into her hair, clutching and releasing while Bethany continues her leisurely exploration with lips and tongue. Bethany nudges the other woman onto her back, holds herself above her as their legs tangle. With her free hand Josephine tugs the blanket away. At the skin on skin contact, they both sigh. 

"It couldn't prepare me," Josephine says, pressing a kiss to Bethany's chin, "for you, for how you make me feel." Her lips follow the line of Bethany's jaw to her earlobe. She bites down gently on the fleshy lobe and Bethany groans. "How excited I become when..." The rest is whispered against Bethany's ear and it causes a shudder to ripple through her body. 

_Maker_. It shouldn't be allowed, for Josephine to say such things to her. It occurs to Bethany, then, that she's playing against a master of honeyed words. This isn't a battle she can win. 

 

*

 

The sun has dipped below the mountaintops by the time they emerge to seek out sustenance. Tempting as the idea is to remain in bed, Bethany's stomach is vocally complaining at having been ignored all day. 

It's only as she's locking up her quarters that she notices the note pinned to the wooden door. She plucks it down, glancing at Josephine, before unfolding the paper. 

The handwriting is instantly recognisable, a careless scrawl with heavy strokes. "It's from Marian." She scans over the words, fingers tightening as a growing feeling of dread settles over her. "She's left for Adamant Fortress." 

There's no apology in it, not that Bethany expects one, but there's something in the sign-off— _do take care of yourself, Bethy_ —that, beneath the patronising tone, suggests a measure of affection and perhaps remorse. 

Bethany swallows thickly. "Did you know? That they were setting off today?" 

"Yes." 

"I should be with them. I could reason with Clarel." She tosses the note aside, not heeding that it catches the breeze and floats over the parapet. 

Is that why Marian and the Inquisitor were arguing this morning? Was there a conspiracy to keep her in the dark about this? Is Josephine complicit in it? One look at the other woman, the way she wrings her hands together, confirms enough. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" 

Josephine seems to steel herself, back straight, chin raised. "For many years I served my country and my family before all else. I have rarely asked for anything for myself. Except this. It may be selfish but I need you here, safe." There's a slight tremble in the Ambassador's voice. It steals some of the indignation Bethany feels, however much she wants to hold on to it. "The possibility of you falling under Corypheus's control was too risky. Your sister was of the same mind." 

_The two of you in cahoots_ , Bethany thinks bitterly, _but you don't get to decide_. The Wardens are her people, her order, some of whom she's fought alongside, many that might die at the blades of the Inquisition. She feels sick at the knowledge. 

She staggers a few steps and Josephine reaches out to her. "Don't," she says, too sharply, and immediately regrets the way Josephine flinches back. "I—I need to be alone. Please." 

She walks away blindly, grief for what is surely to come tugging at her chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, angst ahead...


	6. Chapter 6

Days pass without word from the road. No news is good news, or so the saying goes, but Bethany can't help being troubled by the silence. She just can't shake the feeling of apprehension, that something catastrophic is going to happen at Adamant and she's powerless to prevent it.

In the evenings she goes to the tavern simply to escape the downward spiral of her thoughts. Alone, she is mired in them, ever more dreadful scenarios taking root.

The Herald's Rest seems too empty without Varric's presence, even the raucous din of Bull and his Chargers is sorely missed. Still, she'd rather be here than wallowing in her room where unbidden memories surface: Josephine pressed against the door, reclining amongst rumpled blankets, kneeling astride Bethany's lap and kissing her so delicately, so sweetly as if she's something fragile, a rare bloom to be tended with care like the prophet's laurel planted in Skyhold's garden.

(The one night Bethany chose to visit the library instead proved to be a mistake. Leliana noticed her while descending the stairs from the rookery and, well, it isn't a moment Bethany's eager to repeat. Never has she had such a keen sense of someone plotting her murder.)

 

*

 

On the rare occasions that she and Josephine share the same space—always at pains to occupy opposite sides of the room—the strain between them seems an immovable, insurmountable object, manifested in awkward silences and averted stares.

Yet Bethany's eyes keep straying, taking in every detail of discomfort that leaks through Josephine's otherwise inscrutable poise: the rigid set of shoulders, lips pressed into a thin smile, the tight grip on the clipboard. When they do converse it's stilted and formal, adhering to safe topics: the weather, the ongoing renovations at Skyhold; never the march on Adamant Fortress, never this breach that's formed between them.

They were lovers, however briefly, and now it's as if they're strangers. Except the knowledge remains, guarded closely to Bethany's chest. She sees the slope of Josephine's throat and thinks of how the skin tasted on her lips; sees spots of dried ink on long fingers and remembers how they felt running over the hard lines and soft curves of her body. She knows the ghost of Josephine's smile when she is sated and glowing, the breathless sound of her delight.

She misses Josephine. And it hurts, pressing in on all the jagged spaces between her ribs. She is no stranger to pain: the Taint, the Joining, an arrow to her side, a myriad injuries sustained in the line of duty. Maker, but she would chose any of those past agonies over this.

 

*

 

For the most part they successfully avoid crossing paths.

Josephine seldom leaves her office and Bethany busies herself away from the keep by helping Master Dennet at the stables. He tries to brush her off at first—most of the horses are away, a small contingent of cavalry accompanying the Inquisition's foot soldiers, so there really isn't much to be done—but Bethany keeps dutifully turning up at daybreak and he resigns himself to her presence.

Down here she doesn't have to think; for a time she can forget about Josephine, about Marian and the bitterness of their last conversation. There's a curious sort of peace to be found in physical toil: mucking out the stalls, polishing tack, bridles and saddles, brushing down the horses as they stare forward with their calm, steady eyes. The animals ask nothing of her beyond the occasional nose scratch and treat. They don't care that she's an apostate, a Grey Warden, sister to the infamous Hawke.

Master Dennet seems similarly unimpressed by her. The man is gruff and serious, doesn't coddle her when he criticises the standard of her work. His attitude reminds her of Stroud and, for some reason, that brings a small measure of comfort.

 

*

 

Another time, another evening spent propped up at the bar.

She hears the scrape of a stool being pulled out beside her but Bethany doesn't look up from the contents of her mug, staring morosely at the dark beer. The taste is bitter, no less appealing after polishing off three drafts of the lukewarm brew. She's been trying to drown her sorrows but it's just another thing the lauded Grey Warden constitution gets in the way of; any ordinary person would've been under the table by now but the only effect of the potent alcohol is a slight lack of feeling in her fingertips.

"I'm no fan of demon armies, yeah? But it's frigging boring being left behind."

Bethany's silent, which should be indication enough that she isn't in the mood for company, but Sera doesn't take the hint. Or chooses to ignore it. She plops down heavily, stool scraping against the floor again as she shifts about to get comfortable. The sound goes through Bethany, sets her teeth on edge.

"I get why you're here. If Coryphyshit can do his mind control thing on your lot, then it's best you stay far, far away from all that. But me? One minute it's whoosh, whoosh, arrow in the face, like a bad-arse. Next, I'm a liability because the stupid Seeker wasn't watching my back and I got my lights knocked out by some Venatori shite. It only happened the once so, whatever, but—"

"Sera," Bethany sighs low in warning. She glances across, sees Sera recoil.

"What's got your knickers in a knot?"

"Nothing."

"Could've fooled me. You've got a face like a slapped arse. You and your little Josie, both."

Maybe the beer is affecting her after all because Bethany isn't quite fast enough to hide her reaction. Sera stares at her, hard, for a long moment. A smirk edges across her lips, pale eyes alighting with mirth. " _Oh_. Lovers' tiff, is it?" When Bethany gives no reply, Sera heaves a sigh of her own. "That one's all about fancy words so you should talk to her, right? Be poetic and she'll get over it. Or under. Get it? Because, if she's under—"

"Sera," Bethany cuts her off sharply. In her own misguided way Sera's only trying to help but Bethany has no tolerance for it tonight. "While I appreciate your support." (She doesn't.) "I'm asking you: please don't interfere."

"Wasn't going to but fine. I don't give a stuff about your lady bits problems."

Bethany hunches forward, crowding the mug between her palms, and tries to ignore the way Sera makes such a commotion over the simple act of getting down from a stool. Honestly.

"Thought we could be friends, you know? Turns out you're just as stuck up as the rest of the tossers here."

That makes Bethany wince, just a little, but Sera's gone by the time Bethany opens her mouth to make amends.

 

*

 

Bethany's down at the stables when the skies open and the first fat raindrops begin to fall. She's grooming a small tawny mare, losing herself in the repetitive motion of moving the soft-bristled brush over the horse's flank.

She pauses to watch the merchants as they scurry about trying to cover their wares before scattering like bedraggled mice. The few soldiers posted in the lower courtyard lope towards the gatehouse. Within a minute the rain's coming down in vertical sheets, bouncing high off the ground.

She fumbles and almost drops the brush when she catches sight of Josephine hurrying towards the barn, the Ambassador using her clipboard in a futile attempt to protect her head from the worst of the downpour. She's certain Josephine hasn't seen her but Bethany can't help but stare. The sleeves of the gold silk blouse, rapidly darkened by the rain, cling to Josephine's arms.

As soon as she's inside the barn door, Josephine throws down the clipboard with a noise of displeasure and an emphatic Antivan curse rolls off her tongue. Josephine must believe she's alone, would never knowingly allow herself such a slip in decorum within earshot of others. For a few breaths Bethany debates making her presence known. The decision is taken out of her hands when the mare whinnies loudly and Josephine spots Bethany loitering beside the horse.

"Hello," Bethany says, barely audible above the sound of the rain pelting off the roof.

Something like dismay passes over Josephine's features before it's gone and she forces a civil smile. "Warden." She clears her throat. "This weather is quite unexpected. Hopefully we will not be detained long."

"Yes. Indeed."

Josephine stoops to retrieve the discarded clipboard, flicking away the hay that sticks to the sodden paper. The candle normally affixed to the wooden board had been lost somewhere between the courtyard and the barn and Josephine looks faintly perturbed by its absence.

She glances at Bethany, opens her mouth as if to speak again, then appears to think better of it. She turns her back and takes a few steps further into the barn, clutching the clipboard to her chest.

Bethany sees Josephine shiver, the brocade of her dress coat stiff as she paces. Before she can talk herself out of it, Bethany grabs a clean horse blanket from the stall and approaches the other woman.

"Here," she says, holding it out, "you're soaking."

At first Josephine looks like she might refuse the offer but she soon relents, taking it with a murmur of gratitude, setting the clipboard down on a nearby workbench and wrapping the blanket around herself. Water drips from the ends her hair, dark strands sticking to the side her face. Even rain-soaked, with kohl streaked around her eyes, she is so beautiful. It must be why Bethany keeps walking forward, finds herself reaching out to arrange the blanket more securely around Josephine's shoulders. Up close she notices the tiny rain droplets that cling to Josephine's lashes.

Her hands settle over Josephine's upper arms, rubbing warmth into her through the rough fabric. Josephine stares, lips slightly parted and Bethany's unable to look away from her mouth. It occurs to Bethany that there's an invisible boundary that she's traipsing across here but she can't seem to bring herself to care.

"You should take off your coat." Her mind catches up with her mouth and she flushes.

"My tights and blouse are wet, too. Shall I remove them also?" There's a challenge in Josephine's gaze, made all the more fierce by the smudged kohl. "If that is the toll of forcing you to look at me, I will."

"Josephine..."

" _Speak_ to me."

What is there to say? Some part of Bethany thinks there's no repairing this; a lie of omission is still a lie, no matter how well-intentioned. Then she considers all the half-truths, misdirection and outright deception that has made up the tapestry of her own life and the knot in her stomach twists. She's been an awful hypocrite, hasn't she?

She looks away, full of chagrin.

Josephine reaches up with both hands, cupping Bethany's cheeks and forcing her gaze forward. The blanket slips carelessly to the ground as she steps in to Bethany. The warm breath fanning over Bethany's lips is a stark contrast to the chilly palms pressed to her skin. She clutches absently at Josephine's biceps, unconsciously drawing her closer.

The hands on Bethany's cheeks shift, one drifting to her sternum, the other sliding around to the back of her neck. The skin blazes where Josephine's fingertips rest, sifting through the wispy, shorter hair that's escaped Bethany's pony tail.

Without another word Josephine leans in, closing the small distance between them. A gentle kiss is placed upon Bethany's bottom lip, then the top. After a second, drawing in an uneven breath, Bethany kisses back. She inclines her head to deepen the contact, opening her mouth to Josephine and the dart of her tongue. They kiss long and slow, parting only to adjust, to find a slightly more perfect angle. It isn't until a violent shiver racks Josephine's body that Bethany reluctantly breaks away.

She eyes the courtyard; the rain shows no sign of abating, judging by the dark, plump clouds hanging over Skyhold. "Come on," she latches onto Josephine's hand, stoops to retrieve the discarded blanket, shaking it off, before tugging her towards the stairs that lead to the hay loft. "Let's get you dried off before you catch your death."

"I'm fine, I assure you," Josephine says through chattering teeth but follows regardless.

When Bethany moves to peel off the brocade coat Josephine gives no resistance. She hangs the sodden garment to dry over a timber beam, along with Josephine's leather belts and sash. She turns to see Josephine shrugging off her blouse, chain of office already discarded, exposing darkly freckled shoulders to the cool air. Bethany hangs back, biting her lip. Mud-splattered slippers and rain-streaked stockings are next to go until Josephine is left only in damp underclothes.

Bethany walks forward with the blanket. She wishes it was made of softer material: imperial cotton or royal sea silk, something that doesn't smell faintly of horses. She's careful as she wraps Josephine in the blanket again and puts her arms around her. Only to provide body heat, she tells herself, not because she's been craving it.

Josephine huddles closer, turning her face into Bethany's neck, breath coming hot and quick despite her trembling. It makes Bethany's stomach flutter.

Even after the shivers subside Josephine remains within Bethany's arms. She's aware of every place they are touching: breasts, bellies, thighs and Bethany is trying very hard to be respectful but she wants so much to put her hands on Josephine. It doesn't help that Josephine is so warm, that she feels so wonderful. Bethany's unable to prevent the soft groan that slips out.

Josephine pulls back, just enough to be able to look upon her. She isn't sure what Josephine sees as her gaze flits searchingly over Bethany's face.

"I've missed you." She presses another kiss to Bethany's mouth and sighs. "I'm afraid Leliana has borne the brunt of my ill temper."

Bethany hasn't fared any better. She probably ought to apologise to Sera. And Master Dennet. In fact, everyone who's had the misfortune to have had a run-in with her recently. She tightens her hold around the other woman. "I'm sorry."

"No, I shouldn't have kept the Inquisitor's plans from you. Despite your sister's objections I'm certain His Worship would have allowed you to accompany them. I would've hated every second of our separation but... it wasn't my choice to make."

"It doesn't matter now, it's out of our hands. I have to trust that Marian and the Inquisitor will do the right thing by the Wardens." Bethany lets her forehead tip forward to rest against Josephine's. "Maker, just let's never have any more secrets between us?"

Josephine nods. "I swear it, my love." She lifts her chin, brushing their lips together once more then again with greater pressure and purpose. As the kiss intensifies Bethany becomes aware of her shirt being pulled free from the waistband of her trousers, followed by the warm glide of hands upon her abdomen.

She exhales her surprise in a rush of breath. She clutches loosely at Josephine's wrists, stopping her progress. "What are you doing?"

Josephine looks at her, one eyebrow hoisted as if to say: isn't it obvious?

"Someone could see us."

"Our association is hardly a secret," Josephine says before she steals another kiss.

"But—"

She feels Josephine's smile against her lips. "Who would be foolish enough to seek refuge in a leaky barn during a thunderstorm?" It takes a second for Bethany's foggy mind to follow the suggestion held in Josephine's words. "A good diplomat recognises an opportunity to seize the upper hand in negotiations, even when talks seem to have stalled."

Something comes to Bethany's mind, a supposed pearl of wisdom Isabela had once shared during a game of Diamondback: never bet against an Antivan, you'll end up losing your money and your drawers.

"We are alone," Josephine murmurs, taking Bethany's bottom lip between her own and scraping her teeth gently over it, "hidden from view." A kiss is pressed to her chin. "It being so close to dinner time likely no one has yet noted our absence." Another series of kisses are trailed along the slope of Bethany's jaw. "In any case, would anyone brave this weather to seek us out?" Josephine's lips move distractingly down Bethany's throat until they reach the tender skin where neck meets shoulder. She bites down lightly.

Bethany lets out a shuddering breath and lifts her hands to Josephine's cheeks, bringing their mouths together. Josephine's lips part to accept the sweep of Bethany's tongue. At the same time Josephine rucks up Bethany's shirt, pushing under the tight cotton that binds Bethany's breasts, palms rolling over nipples and grasping at heated flesh. All she can do is arch into Josephine's hands helplessly as arousal settles warm and heavy between her legs.

They stumble back a few steps in their struggle to get closer and Bethany pulls away to catch her breath. The hunger in Josephine's eyes, the dusting of a dark flush over her cheeks, makes Bethany's head spin. This is happening too fast.

"Wait." She puts some distance between them, hastily rearranging her shirt, and tries to collect herself. She doesn't want it like this, some quick fumble in the barn where they could be interrupted. She wants to take her time, work Josephine up slowly. "Not here."

"Your quarters, then?"

She's gratified that the other woman is undeterred. Bethany nods. "Come find me after dinner." She pauses, allows her eyes to sweep the length of Josephine's body. "And cancel any meetings you've arranged for tomorrow morning. You won't be in any condition to receive guests."

"Such talk," Josephine whispers in mock scandal but those grey eyes say otherwise.

They both notice that the rain has almost stopped, now just a light drizzle. Patches of blue sky peek through the cloud cover. There's no excuse to linger here any longer.

Bethany helps Josephine back into her clothes and it feels almost as intimate as undressing her. The silks aren't nearly dry yet but it'll suffice for the short walk back to the keep. She tries as best she can to neaten Josephine's chignon but Bethany never was very good with her own hair, never mind anyone else's.

"How do I look?" Josephine asks, fussing with the ruffles of her sleeves.

"Good enough to make me reconsider a roll in the hay."

Josephine swats at her arm, a small frown marring her forehead for an instant, and for the first time in days Bethany feels the weight upon her shoulders lessen.

 

*

 

A knock at the door interrupts Bethany as she's changing into a clean shirt. Josephine really must be eager, it's been less than an hour since they parted ways in the upper courtyard.

She saunters over to the door, not quite able to tamp down on the pleased smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth. It falls away when she opens the door to a young elven girl. The girl appears anxious, wringing her pale hands together.

"Yes?"

"Begging your pardon, Warden, but I bring a message from Sister Leliana. She's asked to see you at once."

Bethany shivers against a sudden chill, a feeling like ice running through her veins. "Did she say what it was about?"

"No, m'lady. Just that you're to meet in the war room."

"Very well. Tell her I'm on my way."

It's with stiff but efficient movements that Bethany dons her uniform and only once she is fully dressed, feathered shoulder guard in place, does she feel ready to face her summoning.

 

*

 

Josephine's office is empty when Bethany passes through. Somehow that doesn't bode well and she silently inures herself against what must inevitably be terrible news. She isn't sure which possibility is worse: that the Wardens at Adamant have been obliterated by the Inquisition or have fallen to a demon army.

Each heavy step seems to resound in her ears as she walks the long corridor that leads to the war room. She enters without knocking.

Leliana and Josephine stand next to each other at the map table. There's a pensive look on Josephine's face but Leliana's expression is unreadable. The only thing that gives her disquiet away is the clenching of her fists.

"I've received word from Commander Cullen," Leliana begins without preamble. Her voice, which always sounded so sweet to Bethany when she was just a girl in Lothering, is devoid of that usual charm. Now she is solemn, serious, in a way that makes Bethany wary. "The assault on Adamant was a success—if the loss of so many lives can be considered such."

There's something else. It's obvious in the way Leliana shifts her weight and exchanges a glance with Josephine. The Ambassador takes this as her cue and steps forward. "The Inquisitor, your sister and others in their party—Varric among them—they are missing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm sorry, another two month wait between updates. If it makes it any better, a fair chunk of the next chapter is already written?
> 
> Feel free to ~~harass~~ talk to me on tumblr: femininechaos


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: this chapter is decidedly NSFW.

For a while Bethany just stares.  _Missing_. What does that even mean? People don't just vanish into thin air. Not without magic.

The Ambassador and spymaster share a look, a silent exchange between two old friends so nuanced that Bethany can't begin to unpick it.

"The details of Cullen's report are scant—it is chaotic there, I imagine—but he believes that the Inquisitor's party survived the battle," Josephine says. She pauses, taking a few seconds to chose her next words with care. "According to the Commander their last known location is where a large section of the fortress collapsed."

"But they  _are_  alive?" 

If there's a frantic edge to Bethany's voice, both advisers do her the courtesy of letting it go unacknowledged. She reaches for the edge of the war table, leaning heavily against it. Marian, Varric, they're—what?—buried under tons of rock? Presumed dead?

"Our forces are searching the rubble," continues Leliana, her mouth turning down as she folds her arms. "There are no sightings as yet."

No bodies have been recovered, she means.

"Cullen is doing everything he can," Josephine adds quickly, grey eyes seeking out Bethany's to convey comfort and reassurance. "He will not rest until they are found."

Bethany stares down at the table, her gaze roaming uselessly over the map until she fixes upon Orlais, on the marker that protrudes from the edge of the Western Approach. She has the urge to rip it from the map and hurl it across the room; instead her fingers tighten around the gnarled edge of the table.

"What of Stroud? Warden Commander Clarel?" Her voice sounds rough, clogged with emotion that she's unable to master. It feels as if her chest is caving in. She closes her eyes briefly, trying hard to shove down her personal feelings, to trample them into something small and containable.

"Stroud is with the Inquisitor, as far as we know. As for Clarel..." Leliana shakes her head. "She defeated Erimond but was killed by Corypheus's dragon."

"Maker." The dragon hardly even seems the most far-fetched part of all this. Bethany swallows thickly. "And the other Wardens?"

"The spellbound mages are dead, the remaining warriors have surrendered. Cullen has taken authority over them for the time being."

The manner in which Leliana says it, so plainly matter of fact, leaves Bethany unnerved. These were good men and women. Clarel, however misguided, must've believed there was no alternative. Bethany knew the woman only by reputation: a highly respected, determined and capable leader. To resort to this—colluding with Tevinter Magisters, blood rituals, binding her people to demons—was surely an act of desperation. Whatever Clarel's motives, the Order in Orlais is in ruins now, humiliated in defeat.

"What will happen to them now?"

Leliana's cool stare shifts from Bethany to Josephine and back again. "I expect their fate will be decided by the Inquisitor."

"Assuming he lives," Bethany says.

A stark silence descends as they each consider the ramifications of that statement. Without the Inquisitor and the power of the anchor what real hope do they have of standing against Corypheus?

"Let us pray he does, hm? Or may the Maker have mercy upon us all." Leliana's lips twitch into something that more resembles a grimace than a smile. "I'll take my leave. I'm sure you and Josephine have much to discuss."

When the spymaster is gone Josephine comes to stand in front of Bethany, reaching cautiously for her shoulders, as if any sudden movement might startle her. There's a fretful pinch between Josephine's eyebrows. "Is there anything I can do?"

"There's nothing to be done except wait and see."

She watches Josephine hesitate, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Bethany gives her a curious look.

"I wondered... Would you still care for company this evening? Just to talk, nothing more. I don't wish to seem presumptuous. Unless, that is—"

Bethany grasps the other woman's cheeks between gentle hands. She leans in, effectively stemming the flow of words with a kiss. Her world is off-kilter but this, Josephine, at least she feels sure of.

"I don't want to be without you," Bethany says, the words scarcely more than an exhalation into the space between their lips. "Not tonight." Not ever, she amends silently, but that seems much too large a thought to speak aloud.

Josephine's eyes are shut, lashes fanning over high cheekbones, when Bethany draws back. Her touch lingers, the backs of her fingers stroking over Josephine's skin.

"Our patrons and allies will assuredly be clamouring for answers when they learn of events at Adamant." Josephine opens her eyes, regarding Bethany with a regretful look. "It would be... unwise to clear my schedule now."

A barely there smile ghosts across Bethany's lips as her hands drop to her sides. "It wasn't really a serious request."

"Ah, of course," Josephine concedes, her cheeks colouring just a little. She clears her throat and gestures towards the door. "After you."

 

*

 

The room is freezing. Between the messenger and the meeting in the war room, Bethany hadn't thought to start a fire. 

"Sorry," she says, seeing Josephine rub her arms beside the door, and goes over to the hearth. She quickly stacks the wood and conjures a flame, setting the kindling alight. 

She beckons Josephine closer and they stand together in silence in front of the fire, letting it chase away the chill. 

"If it's all right with you I don't really feel much like talking."

"Oh." There's a flicker of disappointment in Josephine's expression, quickly masked. "I quite understand. Well. I bid you goodnight, then."

Bethany catches Josephine's hand before she can turn away. "I didn't mean you should go." A gentle tug brings the other woman nearer. She lets their fingers entwine. "Do you know how much restraint it took earlier not to just..." Bethany presses her lips together to stop herself from saying something crass and inhales deeply through her nose. "Do you know what you do to me?"

Josephine's gaze travels from their joined hands to Bethany's mouth. Her eyes are shadowed, dark and fathomless in the firelight. "I may have some idea," she murmurs, "if it's anything close to the effect you have on me."

"I—please, just come here." Bethany winds an arm around Josephine's waist, pulling her flush against her, while Josephine's hand cups the back of her neck. Within an instant they're kissing, torridly, all clash of teeth and slide of tongues. 

After long minutes of this Bethany forces herself to calm down. She frees her hand from Josephine's so she can spread both palms against Josephine's lower back. "I'm can't stop thinking about you," Bethany confesses between slow, searching kisses. "I feel as if I'm losing my mind."

"Then I must share in the insanity." Josephine tilts her head, changing the angle of the kiss, bringing her other hand to Bethany's jaw to direct her subtly. "And I would not wish it otherwise."

Bethany lets her hands roam, following the curve of Josephine's hips. It's only now that she notices that Josephine has forgone her usual sash, cinch and belts, opting instead for a single thick belt with a wide buckle. Thank the Maker for small mercies. She reaches between them, working the buckle and letting the belt drop to the floor. She wastes no time in pushing the overcoat from Josephine's shoulders, only removing her lips from Josephine's when locating the hidden buttons of the frilly white blouse beneath proves troublesome. 

"Let me, my darling," Josephine says with a light laugh. "One blouse has already been ruined today. Let's not add to the tally, hm?"

As Josephine disrobes—shedding the blouse, toeing off her slippers, pushing down the leggings and stockings and setting them all in a neatly folded pile on a nearby chair—Bethany wrestles impatiently with the fastenings of her armour. Josephine helps her with the last few pieces, pressing her lips briefly to each new expanse of skin as it's revealed. 

Their bodies come together again when they are down to their smalls. Bethany plants kisses down the column of Josephine's throat, pausing to suck lightly at the pulse point, and she feels fingers tangle in her hair, hears a sigh loosened close to her ear. She plucks at the laces of Josephine's corset until she's able to peel it away, allowing Josephine's breasts to spill free. Bethany's hands glide over the slight curvature of Josephine's soft belly, along the ridges of her rib cage until she's cupping the weight of Josephine's breasts, thumbs extending upwards to swipe against hardened nipples. The fingers in Bethany's hair tighten, tugging, bringing her mouth back up to meet Josephine's. They kiss deeply, mouths open and wet, hot breath mingling.

Bethany manoeuvres them towards the bed, urging Josephine to sit. She is a captive audience while Bethany unravels the binding around her own breasts, darkened eyes following every movement keenly. 

When Bethany's chest is bared, finally, Josephine's mouth parts on a breath. She reaches for Bethany's waist, drawing her closer. Josephine presses a tender kiss to the fading mark where the arrow had pierced, following a map-work of old silvery scars across Bethany's torso with her lips. She catalogues every one them with tender care.

Josephine strays higher, scattering kisses over Bethany's breasts before taking the stiff peak of a nipple between her lips and running her tongue around its tip. Between the gentle suction and the warmth of Josephine's mouth, Bethany finds herself groaning. Her hands find Josephine's shoulders, her jaw, eventually tangling in dark hair, clumsily working Josephine's chignon loose while Josephine turns her attention to the other nipple. 

One of Josephine's hands moves, tracing patterns over Bethany's stomach then drifting down over the front of her smalls. A noise, wanting, sympathetic, catches in Josephine's throat when she feels how soaked Bethany is through the cotton. The light touch leaves Bethany desperate for more contact and she cants her hips, trying to gain some relief from the ache that is building between her legs. 

Josephine takes her mouth away, pulling back to look up at Bethany. The fingers between Bethany's legs are still but she feels as if she might fly apart soon under Josephine's gaze alone. Those eyes, pupils blown enormously wide, rake over her with open desire. 

"What would you like for me to do?" Josephine's voice is silken, assured, and that, in combination with warm hand now fully cupping her, makes Bethany's knees shake. She steadies herself by clutching at Josephine's shoulders, aware of how clammy her palms are against smooth skin.

Articulating her desire has never come easily to Bethany—call it a remnant of her younger self's prudishness, something she hasn't quite shaken off. "I—your fingers." Maker preserve her. She swallows against the dryness in her throat as she continues the slow grind into Josephine's hand. "I want you inside me."

The words make her whole body feel ablaze. She sees the slight widening of Josephine's eyes, the press of white teeth against her plush bottom lip. 

Something within Josephine's expression seems to shift, surprise giving way to resolve. Both hands grasp at Bethany's smalls, yanking them down her legs. The tell-tale sound of stitching ripping only makes Bethany's heart pound faster. Josephine looks contrite, if for only a second, before her fingers return to rake through the hair between Bethany's legs.

Bethany sighs, giving an encouraging roll of her hips. "Please."

She shudders when Josephine's middle finger dips between her labia, gliding easily against slick flesh, delving lower to swirl around her entrance. The touch is feather-light to begin with, not nearly enough. Bethany chokes on a breath when Josephine presses two fingers into her. Josephine strokes her, slow and steady, with each withdrawal curling her fingertips just so. Bethany grips Josephine's shoulders tightly, using the leverage to rock her hips downwards, driving Josephine's fingers deeper.

Soon they're both breathing heavily. Bethany brings one hand to Josephine's chin, tilting her head back so she can kiss her. The angle is slightly awkward, straining Bethany's neck, but she doesn't care; she needs this, needs Josephine's lips against her own. She doesn't falter, not even when Josephine swipes a thumb over her clitoris, circling in tandem with every thrust of her fingers. 

The climax builds so rapidly that it catches Bethany by surprise; she arches, her body going rigid as muscles squeeze and shudder and shake. She clings to Josephine's shoulders, nails biting into freckled skin as she rides it out, panting harshly into the other woman's mouth. 

"I love you," she says, amazed at how easily the words come even as her heart thuds hard and fast against her ribs.

Josephine's answering smile is something to behold, as if her entire being is lit from the inside and the warmth of it is reflected back upon Bethany. "I don't think I shall ever tire of hearing you say so, my darling."

Bethany kisses her soundly, sweetly, basking in the glow of Josephine's affection. She plants a knee on either side of Josephine's hips, settling on her lap. A soft noise escapes Josephine's throat and her hand slips from between Bethany's legs to grip her thigh. Josephine is restless, shifting perceptibly beneath Bethany, grasping and kneading the sweat-damp skin below her palms. The twin graze of Josephine's nipples against her skin stokes Bethany's arousal and she breaks the kiss only to press Josephine down into the covers. 

The sight of Josephine beneath her like this makes Bethany's heart pound a staccato rhythm. Her gaze tracks slowly over the curves and contours of Josephine's body—generous breasts, the slight roundness of her stomach, the flare of her hips—and she hardly knows where she wants to begin. She just  _wants_. 

"You're so beautiful, Josephine. Have I told you that?" She places her hands on Josephine's hips, running her palms along the dip at her waist, up the slope of her abdomen, over the swell of her breasts. She watches Josephine arch into the touch, feels Josephine's hips push up against her own. They rock against each other, their movements growing increasingly erratic, until Josephine shudders through a small climax.

Bethany doesn't allow her the opportunity to rest, instead slipping off the bed and dropping to her knees. She hooks a hand under each of Josephine's thighs and pulls her to the edge of the mattress. There's a damp patch where the thin silk of Josephine's undergarments cling to her, visible even by the light of the fire, and the sight of it makes Bethany ache.

Josephine rises up on wobbly elbows to look at her, a breath hitching in her throat when she realises Bethany's intentions. They haven't done this before but, Maker, Bethany is hungry for it.

"May I?"

Josephine gives a small but definitive nod. 

Trembling with anticipation Bethany reaches for Josephine's pantalettes, drawing them slowly down her legs. She pushes Josephine's thighs apart and lets her gaze drop.

 _Fuck_.

She leans down, pressing her mouth to the inside of Josephine's knee, following the irregular pattern of dark freckles along her inner thigh. She switches to the other thigh, taking the same meandering path until she reaches the patch of hair at the juncture of Josephine's legs. The curls there are dark and thick and neat, glistening with the evidence of arousal.

"Goodness," Josephine gasps over a sharp inhalation, hips jumping when Bethany licks a broad stripe up her slit. Josephine is exquisite, rich and full in Bethany's mouth and she leans in for another taste, dragging her tongue through the gathered wetness. "Oh!"

With two fingers Bethany spreads Josephine further. She lets her tongue run lazily over intricate folds, mapping every inch to memory, now and then swirling the tip of her tongue into Josephine's opening and lapping up the overflow of her excitement.

Josephine is far from silent, a steady stream of whimpers and foreign phrases interspersed with Bethany's name falling from her lips.

From her place between Josephine's thighs Bethany glances up, taking in the sight of Josephine with her head tipped back, perspiration beading along her throat, the way she keeps undulating her body and licking her lips and grabbing fistfuls of the blankets. Bethany groans, aroused beyond belief, and Josephine cries out at the vibration of it against her sensitive skin.

Bethany's movements become more purposeful as her jaw tires and she lifts her mouth off Josephine. She positions her fingers at Josephine's entrance and glides inside, one digit quickly followed by a second. Josephine's so wet that Bethany's fingers almost slip out every time she pulls back to thrust in deeper. With each upwards stroke she allows the heel of her hand to skim against Josephine's clitoris, the glancing contact causing Josephine to grind down to seek more friction.

It doesn't take much longer for Josephine to come undone, not when Bethany presses her thumb to Josephine's clit and starts to rub in tight circles. When Josephine finally crests it's with a sudden arch of her spine, a long, high gasp heralding her release. The sound of it leaves Bethany squirming, wetness pooling again between her own legs.

Her fingers remain, moving slowly, teasing out small tremors. She presses her mouth to Josephine's thighs where they are sticky and wet, licking the spill of fluid that clings to her skin then moving in again to feather her tongue back and forth over Josephine's clit. She alternates between flat, broad licks and tracing precise patterns until Josephine's too sensitive and gasping anew. 

One finger crooks, seeking and finding the spot that Bethany knows will bring Josephine swiftly over the edge again. She massages gently and Josephine's legs fall wide open as she bucks and spasms, muscles clamping tightly around Bethany's fingers once more.

Bethany watches Josephine's chest heave as the other woman fights to draw breath into her lungs. She looks wild, kohl smudged around her eyes, in this moment so far removed from the mantle of chief diplomat of the Inquisition and scion of a merchant family. 

Gently Bethany withdraws her fingers. She shuffles forward into the space between Josephine's legs and leans over her body, dipping down to kiss her. The taste of Josephine lingers in her mouth and Bethany feels an unsteady sigh expelled against her lips.

She draws back a bit, uncertain. "Are you all right?"

One hand lifts to her cheek, resting there for the span of a few seconds as Josephine gazes up at her. Fingers trace over Bethany's cheek, the line of her jaw, the jut of her chin and she struggles to remain still. Josephine's thumb drags across her lower lip, a look of fascination and hazy desire on her face.

"I had no idea..." Josephine says, a languid, satisfied smile curving her mouth. "I'd read about this but, goodness!"

Bethany's eyebrows lift. "You mean no one's ever...?" Off the other woman's shake of her head, Bethany can't quite temper her elation. "I'm glad I was the one to initiate you, then."

"As am I." Josephine draws her down into another kiss, licking delicately into her, and all Bethany can do is press closer, groan at the feeling of slick skin grinding with slow purpose against her abdomen. "Will you allow me to return the favour?"

 

*

 

The fire has long since petered out by the time Bethany wakes. Her arms are full of Josephine: warm, naked, and snoring softly into the pillow. She smothers a smile in Josephine's shoulder and hugs her closer, heart full with the simple joy of it. The small movement causes Josephine to stir and she turns within Bethany's hold, eyes dark and hooded in the pale, pre-dawn light. 

"Have you slept at all?" Josephine's accent is more pronounced in her half-awake state and Bethany finds it utterly charming. 

"Off and on." 

Josephine makes a small sound of displeasure and Bethany wards off any rebuke with a kiss. When she pulls away Bethany nuzzles against Josephine's cheek and temple, taking in the morning scent of her, pressing her lips to the edge of her brow.

"Oh, I could grow accustomed to this," Josephine admits with a sigh of contentment, fingers reaching up to comb through Bethany's hair, snagging on the tangles and gently, patiently working them free.

Bethany trails her hand along Josephine's arm, watching the rise of goosebumps in it's wake. She's preoccupied by the subtle shiver that her touch evokes when she smooths over Josephine's bicep and across the graceful line of her collarbone. There are faint scratches along Josephine's shoulders and near the base of her throat a purpling bruise but Bethany can't find it in herself to feel guilty. At least Josephine's fashion for wearing a scarf will save her from any embarrassment.

"Mmn," Bethany agrees absently. She lowers her mouth to press kisses along Josephine's jaw. "Maybe we should share quarters, then? Give those hangers-on in the throne room something to talk about."

The suggestion is meant in jest but when Josephine remains curiously still and silent, Bethany leans back. The wide-eyed expression on Josephine's face gives her pause. 

"You'd be surprised how willing people are to overlook traditional protocols when the fate of the world hangs in the balance. In normal circumstances anything less than a formal declaration of our relationship following proper parental introductions would be considered quite scandalous but these are desperate times."

It hasn't crossed Bethany's mind before but she wonders what Josephine's family would think of her. Surely she isn't the person they would've chosen for their eldest child. The mild worry must show on her face because Josephine cups a hand to her cheek. "We are together, regardless. I harbour no delusions; I'm aware our time may be limited. I want to spend every spare moment with you. If that means more... conducive sleeping arrangements then I would not object."

Bethany looks at the other woman for a long moment, eyes arrested by every detail. It's so easy to picture living with Josephine, her mind conjuring morning ablutions and bedtime rituals, even just quietly sharing the same space. Bethany hasn't had any shared domesticity, not since Kirkwall, not since that squalid little house with Mother, Marian, Gamlen and a Mabari hound. Whatever happened to that smelly mutt? Marian always let him sleep on Bethany's bunk, getting dirty paw prints all over the mattress. And the slobber!

She blinks, dispelling these thoughts. How is it possible to be nostalgic for something she detested? 

"I want that, too," she says, mouth ticking up in a small smile.

The hand on Bethany's cheek slips around to the nape of her neck, pulling her down to waiting lips to seal the agreement.

 

*

 

By mutual consent they decide that it's less disruptive for Bethany just to move her few belongings to Josephine's room within the keep.

It's as she's carrying her things across the upper courtyard—a single wooden crate containing all her worldly possessions—that she spots Sera outside the tavern, apparently being chatted up by Maryden. Bethany inclines her head, part greeting, part apology, and she catches a glimpse of a smirk on Sera's face before the blonde lifts her chin and looks away.

It doesn't take long to unpack. Josephine has already cleared space for her in the armoire and chest of drawers, though Bethany's clothes take up embarrassingly little room. There's an empty shelf in the bookcase and she stacks a couple of Grey Warden histories and the smutty books Isabela has sent her over the years, along with Mother's betrothal portrait and some other odds and ends.

She feels strange, like an interloper without Josephine being present. She doesn't remember much of the décor from her convalescence here but Josephine's managed to add a personal touch to an otherwise dreary place. There are thick rugs on the floor, a few hanging tapestries and a rather striking landscape painting of Antiva City overlooking the Rialto Bay. The bed is dressed with an embroidered quilt that would look far more at home in a palace in Orlais. Everything is neat and orderly but it must be a stark difference to the surroundings Josephine grew up in.

Bethany doesn't linger, not wanting to give in to the temptation to snoop. Instead she goes to visit Josephine in her office.

She's speaking with officials when Bethany enters, a frown deeply etched between Josephine's brows. In one hand she carries her clipboard and the other holds a quill. If the set of her mouth didn't already betray her annoyance, the manner with which she flourishes the writing instrument, like an angry bird pecking at an adversary, makes it abundantly clear. When Josephine notices Bethany's presence she dismisses the diplomats with a stiff bow.

"Is this a bad time?"

"No," Josephine says with a heavy sigh, placing the clipboard and quill on the desk. She sinks into her armchair and massages her temples. "Rightly so, our allies are concerned. Unfortunately it falls upon me to try to assuage their fears."

"There's been no further news?"

Josephine gives a slight, sad shake of her head. 

Bethany presses her lips together and changes the subject. "Well, I've moved my things. It's not too late to back out."

A dark eyebrow quirks. "Why would I do that?"

Bethany shrugs as she walks towards the desk, rounding it to sit on the edge facing Josephine's chair. "Just giving you the option."

A hand reaches for one of hers, fingers tangling with her own. "Thank you but no. I'm quite certain." Their joined hands are brought to Josephine's lips, kisses pressed upon Bethany's knuckles. It makes her heart clutch, as if she's fifteen all over again and experiencing the first giddy flush of infatuation. That's how being with Josephine makes her feel. "The only thing making this day bearable is the thought of curling up beside you once it's over."

"Keep sweet-talking me like that and I might have to steal you away." The words come out much breathier than Bethany expects.

"I may hold you to that," Josephine replies, lips still grazing knuckles, though her gaze is rooted upon Bethany's.

The squeal of the door hinges effectively dispels the moment, their hands separating before Josephine's assistant appears. Bethany slips from the desk, sharing a rueful glance with Josephine as she whispers, "I'll see you later."

 

*

 

An afternoon stroll around the Skyhold gardens eventually leads Bethany to the chapel. She hasn't attended for months, not since before the Storm Coast, but she feels an inexplicable pull towards it today.

Taking a seat in one of the rear pews she's content to observe Mother Giselle and a lay sister setting up for the early evening liturgy. The lay sister flits between the various candelabras dispersed around the chapel, lighting each one with tapers, the faint scent of incense gradually filling the space.

Lost in her own thoughts, Bethany doesn't notice Mother Giselle sit down beside her until the woman speaks. "I haven't seen you recently."

"Yes, it's been a while," Bethany says with a slight smile. "Am I in the way?"

"No, my dear. You are always welcome here."

They sit together in silence, both pairs of eyes resting on the bronze statue of Andraste that dominates the chapel, until Bethany takes a quiet breath and says: "May I ask you a favour? Would you pray for my sister at evensong? I'm not devout, haven't been for a long time, and Marian never was, but I thought... It couldn't hurt, could it?"

She turns to Mother Giselle to find the woman regarding her with a soft, serene look of understanding. "Of course, child. Will you stay and listen?"

Bethany's about to refuse because she feels like a charlatan, asking this woman of faith to pray on her behalf. It's one thing to take comfort in the Chant while divorced from belief, quite another to ask something of an entity that Bethany's no longer sure even exists. But if she's going to try to use a last ditch prayer to the Maker as an insurance policy, she may as well be there to witness it. "All right."

 

*

 

Before dinner Bethany returns to Josephine's— _their_ —room to freshen up. She's surprised to find Josephine there already, pacing in front of the bed. Josephine comes to an abrupt standstill as soon as she sees Bethany, wringing her hands together.

"Oh, thank goodness! I've been searching all over for you."

"I was at the chapel. Josephine, what's the matter? You look—" Bethany's stomach drops. "Is it Marian?"

Josephine's eyes are wide, stricken. She takes a few steps towards Bethany and reaches for her hands, squeezing firmly. "A raven arrived from Cullen. The Inquisitor is safe. Somehow they entered a rift in the Fade; I'm not entirely clear on what occurred there but he has returned largely unscathed with Varric, Cassandra, Vivienne and Stroud."

This is good news so why does Josephine look so full of trepidation? The Inquisitor and his companions are alive and well and soon...

The initial relief evaporates as realisation drains through Bethany. "Marian's still there, isn't she? In the Fade." 

Josephine's next words are quietly spoken but they may as well be a roar in the stillness of the room. "From what I gather she volunteered to stay behind so that the others could make their escape. It was an incredibly brave and selfless act."

An unkind noise leaves Bethany's throat. Why would Marian change the habit of a lifetime and start being selfless now, she thinks savagely. Then again, Marian has always been an opportunistic glory hunter and what could be more self-aggrandising than making a last stand where her body could likely never be found?

Damn her. Bloody damn Marian to the Void.

Bethany slumps back against the closed door, sliding down until she hits the stone floor. She doesn't even realise she's crying until Josephine is beside her, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

"I am so sorry," Josephine says as her hands flutter over Bethany's hair. She dots tiny kisses over Bethany's wet cheeks then wraps her up in her arms tightly. "Oh, my darling. Oh, my love, I'm sorry."

Bethany buries her face in the crook of Josephine's neck. Another blouse ruined, she thinks, and it loosens a broken sob from her throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to shout at me on tumblr: femininechaos


	8. Chapter 8

"It should have been me," Bethany mutters darkly, bringing the stifling silence to an end.

The fingers that have been steadily running though her hair become still.

She passes a hand over her face, feeling the dried remnants of tears upon her cheeks. Her head throbs dully and her tongue scrapes across the roof of her mouth like sandpaper. She should drink some water, get up, but she's reluctant to move from her spot on the bed, the heat of Josephine's body seeping into her side and making her sluggish. She hasn't even undressed and if Josephine wasn't so unfailingly polite, so kind, she might have objected to Bethany's boots touching the quilt.

"My darling, you don't mean that."

"No?" Bethany's eyes shift, meeting and holding Josephine's. "I've been a Grey Warden for almost ten years. At best I have another decade, probably less. Marian has her whole—she—it isn't her time to go. Not now, not like this."

The fingers in her hair withdraw, coming to rest on Bethany's arm instead. "You speak as if your own life is of little consequence."

"Well, isn't it? I'm just another apostate." The corner of Bethany's mouth lifts in scorn. "Maker knows Thedas couldn't be any worse off with one less running around."

" _Bethany_." Said in a choked whisper of shock. Josephine's eyes are watery and large, beseeching.

Bethany looks away. There's a tick in her jaw. "Did you know that the mage who blew up the Kirkwall Chantry was a Warden, too? Well, a runaway Warden. He and Clarel really haven't done much for our reputation."

"The actions of a few cannot be used as the basis to condemn an entire group of people."

A mirthless laugh escapes Bethany's throat. "Except that's how it's been for years, hasn't it? It's how they justify tearing children from their families and locking them up in the Circle. All because some _might_ succumb to a demon."

There was a time, long ago, when Bethany thought it might have been better that way; to grow up surrounded by people who were like her, even if they weren't free. After Father died she felt so alone, frightened by her developing power and with no one to guide her. Back then it was difficult to keep a tight leash on her magic and Carver and Marian were both unsympathetic whenever her control wavered. To them her magic was dangerous and she was a liability, an imposition on their own liberty.

Bethany closes her eyes briefly, not wanting to let old resentments resurface. None of it matters now.

"In the early days I actually sympathised with Anders. He was so angry, not just about the injustices perpetrated against mages but the sick, the poor and the downtrodden. I envied him, even. From a young age it was drummed into me that I had to disappear into the background, don't draw attention to myself, be meek and deferential, while he wasn't afraid to stand up for what he believed in. He was like Father in some respects; perhaps that's one of the reasons why Marian was drawn to him."

"It must have been an impossible choice for her, in the end."

Anders would have been killed one way or another, what with Fenris and Sebastian, the city guard, and a legion of templars baying for his blood. At least by Marian's blade it was swift. "I often wonder if Marian had some inkling of what he was planning to do. Was it stupidity or wilful denial or did she just love him beyond reason?"

"Sometimes we go to surprising lengths to excuse those we love. It is only human nature, I think." Josephine reaches for her again, settling a warm palm upon Bethany's cheek. "I did not know Anders but I do know you. Quite aside from my own biased feelings on the matter, you are an example of the good that can be accomplished with magic. This world would be far poorer without you in it."

Maybe Josephine's right but Bethany isn't so sure.

"Sorry, I don't mean to upset you. I suppose this has all just made me very aware of my own mortality." Bethany lets out a soft sigh and shakes her head. "Marian's always seemed so invincible. Part of me doesn't believe it. That she's _gone_."

"Is there any likelihood that she might escape? Could a rescue be mounted?"

"The chances of being able to locate her are... well, minuscule. The Fade is vast, shifting, infinite. It doesn't conform to the rules of time and place that govern our world. If enough magic could be harnessed, maybe, but I can't see the remnants of the Circles rushing to help. Marian hardly endeared herself to mages by siding with Meredith in Kirkwall. Besides, it could take weeks, months even, to amass that kind of power."

"Perhaps Vivienne will have an idea, when she returns. And I have contacts elsewhere; I could make enquiries. There must be _something_ we can do."

Bethany shakes her head. "Nothing quickly. She's stuck there in physical form. She might have enough rations for a few days but there's no source of food or water in the Fade. She'll die of thirst before anyone can reach her. That's if a demon doesn't get her first." She takes a shallow breath and it feels like something jagged is pressing down upon her lungs. "Her best hope is the Inquisitor."

Josephine's hand slips from her cheek. "As much as I wish to I cannot ask him to—"

"I know," Bethany interrupts gently. She shifts onto her side to face the other woman. This time it's her turn to touch Josephine's cheek, to offer comfort. "I would never want you to do anything that might compromise your position."

"While the affairs of the Inquisition are my priority believe me when I tell you I will do anything else within my power to help." Josephine leans over to place a tender kiss on Bethany's forehead, over both eyelids when they flutter closed, before briefly pressing her lips to Bethany's. She draws back an inch. "We will find a way, my darling."

Bethany nods slowly then tilts her chin to bring their mouths together again. She has no inclination to argue over the futility of Josephine's sentiment. All she wants right now is the solace that Josephine's touch brings, however fleeting.

 

*

 

That night Bethany finds sleep elusive, even though she's weary down to her very bones. Careful not to rouse Josephine, she slips from the bed. As she makes her way across the room her limbs feel leaden, fatigue weighing her down as if she is moving underwater.

A low residual heat emanates from the fireplace, just enough to keep the frigid mountain air at bay. She collects a candle holder from the mantle and passes her palm over the wick to light it, carrying it over to the desk where she sits. There are papers stacked on the surface and Bethany pushes them to the side. She finds an unused sheaf of parchment and a quill in one of the desk drawers and uncaps the inkwell.

For a long time she finds herself simply staring at the blank paper, uncertain. Letter writing has never been her forte, her penmanship is terrible, and she doesn't know how to phrase what needs to be said. With a sigh, she eventually sets quill to paper.

 _Uncle Gamlen,_  
_I'm writing with news of Marian. You may be aware of her involvement with the Inquisition; I'm sorry to say she's been reported missing in action following a battle in the Western Approach. It's very likely that she is dead. I expect you'll have questions about the estate, her personal effects, and so on, which Aveline may be better placed to answer. I'm sure she'll assist with any arrangements that need to be made._  
_Otherwise, I hope you are keeping well._  
_Bethany._

She reads the words over, dissatisfied, finding them stilted and impersonal. Gamlen is the only remaining living relative she has, as far as she's aware. For a year and a bit they lived under the same (leaky) roof but she hardly knows anything about him beyond his propensity for drinking and gambling and frequenting the Rose. Not that he made an effort to welcome the Hawkes with open arms anyway; every utterance that fell from his lips was a bitter complaint. Still Mother cared for him, no matter how much he disappointed her. It seems so desperately unfair that a dissolute old reprobate like him is apparently going to outlive them all.

It's for Mother's sake that Bethany is doing this. As a courtesy. And if Gamlen wants the mansion in Hightown she won't contest it. The old Amell estate was never her home, she holds no emotional attachment to it, and she has no use for Marian's belongings. Let him do with the blighted lot of it as he wills.

As she rummages in the drawer for another sheet of paper, she hears the bed creak, the rustle of blankets as Josephine stirs.

"What are you doing, my love?" Josephine sounds adorably befuddled.

Bethany twists around in the chair to look at her, though Josephine's face is mainly shrouded in darkness. "It's all right. I'm writing to my Uncle about Marian."

She hears more than sees Josephine smother a yawn. "If you like I could handle your correspondence. As of late I have, regrettably, become rather adept at delivering such tidings."

"Thank you but it should come from me. There's no love lost between Uncle Gamlen and Marian but he's still family. I won't be much longer. Go back to sleep."

Soon she hears Josephine's breathing even out and Bethany returns to the letter, folding it twice and tipping some wax from the candle to seal it. She sets her palms flat against the desk and lets out a slow breath. The letter somehow makes it all the more real. Until now it hasn't really sunk in, that Marian might never—that she might not see her again. Bethany will never get the opportunity to take back the hurtful things she said before Marian left for Adamant. There will be no reconciliation, no apologies. Her sister may be—in all probability _is_ —dead.

The inescapable truth presses down upon Bethany on all sides. For a moment she allows herself to buckle under the force of it, a hand covering her mouth to stifle the noise of grief that erupts from her throat.

 

*

 

Bethany stands in front of the window in Josephine's office, taking in the impressive view of the ice-capped peaks of the Frostbacks. The snow on the lower slopes has begun to melt, heralding the first signs of Spring. Soon the mountains will be decked with greenery and wildflowers, life blooming even while the world remains under threat.

"Shall I extend an invitation to your Uncle?" Josephine's voice pulls Bethany from her thoughts and she looks over her shoulder, towards where Josephine is leaning against her desk.

There's been talk of holding a vigil for Marian (everyone is careful to avoid calling it a memorial or anything that suggests such finality) when the Inquisitor returns to Skyhold. The idea of it doesn't sit well with Bethany but she suspects its purpose is more to raise morale for the Inquisition's benefactors and followers than to eulogise her sister. None of them, save Varric, really knew Marian and he is awfully prone to exaggeration, the long-standing rivalry between them distorting his tales.

She realises that Josephine is waiting for a response.

"No need. He won't come." Gamlen's only concern is the sizeable fortune he's due to inherit and there's no need to make a trip across the Waking Sea to secure it. "There are others, though: Aveline, Isabela, Merrill. They were... associates, I suppose, not exactly friends. They might attend."

"Of course. I will send invitations and ensure quarters are readied, should they accept."

Bethany watches Josephine scribble a few notes on her clipboard, the soft scratch of quill against parchment filling the otherwise quiet office.

"Are there any other arrangements you wish me to make?"

Bethany shakes her head and walks over to the other woman. Silently she takes the clipboard from Josephine's hands and reaches around her to place it on the desk. The action earns her a questioning glance. Bethany relishes the discernable hitch in Josephine's breath when she steps further into her space.

She doesn't miss the way Josephine's eyes flick towards the closed door then back to Bethany's mouth. Her own eyes are drawn to Josephine's lips, as if an invisible pull exerts itself between them. She lifts a hand to cup Josephine's cheek. Risking a glance upwards she jolts at the sight of Josephine's already dilated pupils.

Objectively, Bethany knows this is unwise. A dalliance here, when at any moment someone could barge in unannounced, is asking for trouble. But the desire to touch, to claim, infects Bethany as surely as the Taint does. Her other hand drifts to Josephine's hip, pressing her back against the desk. She leans forward, nose grazing against the side of Josephine's, shallow breath gusting across Josephine's parted lips. There is nothing but a slice of air between them yet Bethany holds herself back.

It's Josephine that eliminates the space. She is ardent, slipping her tongue inside when Bethany's mouth opens on a quiet moan. Her hands bracket Bethany's neck, leaving Bethany hot and itching to shed her coat.

She loses all sense of time. Her awareness has sharpened only to this: the eager assault of lips and tongue, the imprint of the pads of fingers on her jaw, the perfect fit of hips against her own. When they do finally part the sun's position in the sky has moved slightly. It seems incredible that they've managed this long without some interruption.

"Perhaps we should conclude this conversation elsewhere," Josephine says, sounding breathless. Bethany finds herself following the movement of her lips, kiss-swollen as they are. There's a small smudge of rouge at the corner of Josephine's mouth and Bethany can't take her eyes off it. "I have no more meetings today."

"Paperwork?"

Josephine's thumb traces indulgently over the shape of Bethany's lower lip. "Nothing that cannot be deferred until tomorrow."

Bethany lifts her brows. "Well. Aren't you keen, Ambassador."

"You mock me, _Warden_ ," Josephine says, withdrawing, but Bethany catches her by the waist before she can move away. She wants to kiss the slight pout from Josephine's face. Instead she nudges her nose along Josephine's jaw until she reaches the shell of her ear. The tickle of her breath causes Josephine to shiver.

"Believe me, I want you just as badly," Bethany murmurs. "So much so that I'm thinking about just having you on this desk."

She feels the shock of that statement go through the other woman, the way Josephine's spine goes rigid for an instant before she sways forward, fingers seeking purchase on Bethany's shoulders to steady herself.

"Then let us find somewhere more secluded because I fear I would not dissuade you from it."

The soft groan that leaves Bethany's lips is stifled by the surge of Josephine's mouth against her own. It's one of those searing kisses that leaves Bethany's knees weak, makes her heart pound madly, like she's a swooning damsel from one of Varric's terrible serials. She loves being kissed by Josephine, could happily spend hours delighting in the taste and texture of her mouth, swallowing those tiny arresting noises that catch in Josephine's throat. For now, though, Bethany is impatient for more.

They separate, just far enough for Bethany to glimpse the desire evident upon Josephine's face. "Our room, then. I'll go on ahead. If we leave together it'll be obvious to every man, woman and child in Skyhold what we're up to."

Josephine smooths down her clothing and nods.

It takes every last bit of resolve she has for Bethany to back away. "Don't keep me too long or I might have to start without you."

The heated, desperate look Josephine directs her way in response nearly makes Bethany stumble.

 

*

 

Although she doesn't follow through on her threat Bethany does shuck her uniform and situate herself under the covers in anticipation. The minutes seem to stretch, the wait interminable, but finally she hears someone fumble with the lock and then Josephine is there, back pressed against the closed door. She stays like that for a moment, as if trying to collect herself. From the bed Bethany can see Josephine's breath is laboured, her cheeks darkened with a flush.

Bethany says nothing as she peels back the blanket covering her body. A rather brazen move but it's devastatingly effective. Dark eyes make a slow, deliberate sweep of her nude form and then there is a click, the turn of a key in the lock. The noise seems to propel Josephine forward, crossing the room as she does in four short paces. She practically launches herself onto the bed and straddles Bethany's hips. There's something about Josephine being fully dressed, the feel of all that silk and brocade against her naked skin, that makes Bethany's toes curl. She is wet, keenly aware of the trickle of arousal between her legs, and Josephine has yet to even properly touch her. She almost sighs with relief when Josephine's hands skirt up her sides, rounding the swell of breasts and smoothing over collarbones before sliding down her chest. Warm palms skim over her nipples and Bethany arches into it, needy.

Josephine never strays far from her breasts. She keeps running her hands over and around them, pausing now and then to thumb and pluck at the nipples until they are painfully erect. None of Bethany's past lovers bothered to give her breasts this much attention. She has never really considered herself that sensitive but in this instant she feels like she might come just from this. Her own fingers itch to touch and she reaches out only for Josephine to bat her hands away.

She looks at Josephine and shudders, seeing grey irises almost eclipsed by blackness.

"Hold on to the headboard," Josephine says. There's a huskiness to her voice, making her accent thick like syrup. "Both hands."

Bethany does as instructed. Frankly, Josephine could ask her to do anything right now and she would do it without hesitation. Leaning down Josephine runs her tongue lazily around an areola once, twice, before taking the engorged nipple between her lips and flicking it with her tongue. The same treatment is given to Bethany's other nipple with an added swirl of tongue and scrape of teeth. Back and forth between them Josephine goes, nothing short of worshipping her breasts.

All the while Bethany digs her nails into the wooden headboard, hips canting upwards and helpless moans of "Josephine", "please" and "fuck" falling from her lips in various combinations.

Eventually Josephine takes pity on her, one hand sliding down Bethany's torso and between their bodies. The muscles in Bethany's abdomen twitch and tense at the contact. When Josephine's fingers reach the juncture of her thighs they both gasp. She's soaking. So wet there is a sizeable damp patch beneath her buttocks.

The slight widening of Josephine's eyes betrays her surprise but a pleased smile lingers at the corners of her mouth.

"Seems that I'm the keen one," Bethany mumbles, feeling just a little embarrassed at how ready she is. In her defence, this newly revealed bossy side of Josephine in the bedroom is wholly unexpected and thrilling.

She watches as Josephine tugs on her neck scarf, pulling it free. Bethany certainly does not anticipate Josephine's next move: winding the silk material around Bethany's wrists and securing them to the headboard. She tests the makeshift rope, finding it loose enough that she could free herself if she truly wanted to. Not that she does because the manner in which Josephine is looking at her... Bethany thinks she might very well combust.

Her mouth is drier than the Hissing Wastes as her gaze follows Josephine's every movement. Slowly Josephine divests herself of her outer garments, shedding the belts and sash and overcoat, the gold silk blouse, setting aside the chain of office. With each item removed Bethany finds herself gripping the headboard tighter. Josephine takes her time unlacing the corset until finally it gapes open, revealing a tantalising stripe of brown skin.

Time seems to slow to an agonising crawl as Josephine prowls forward on hands and knees, bringing her body closer, almost within reach of Bethany's chapped lips. Josephine sits back on her heels, settling over Bethany's stomach as she casts off the corset, leaving herself bare from the waist up.

Unabashed Bethany lets her eyes roam up the curve of Josephine's waist, over the ripe fullness of breasts, alighting on every freckle and mole scattered over Josephine's sternum, following the elegant line of her throat, until her stare settles on Josephine's lips. They are parted, glossy, and so incredibly inviting.

Josephine leans forward, arms braced on either side of Bethany's shoulders. She's so close, all Bethany needs to do is lift her head off the pillow and she might just be able to taste skin. She tries, fails, and Josephine laughs softly.

"Is there something you want, my darling?"

A huff of frustration leaves Bethany. "Josephine." The name comes out almost as a whine but it only serves to increase the other woman's amusement. There's a devious edge to her smile.

"Hm?"

"Please." Bethany presses her eyelids shut for a second, willing her voice to sound less desperate. When she opens her eyes again and registers the lust in Josephine's stare, it acts as a lightning rod for her own arousal.

It takes only a mere twist of her hands to slip out of the knotted scarf and within an instant Bethany rolls them over, their positions reversed. She presses the advantage, using the length of her body to hold Josephine beneath her. From thigh to stomach to bosom they are flush. The soft sigh that Josephine loosens sends a shiver down Bethany's spine. She's unable to contain her own sigh when Josephine drags her hands down Bethany's back, over the curve of her bottom and back up again.

One silk-clad thigh insinuates itself between her own and Bethany rubs against it shamelessly. She pushes up onto her elbows, then her palms, holding her upper body off Josephine to create a little space. She rolls her hips, the pace becoming ever more frantic as the minutes pass. Sweat breaks out across both their bodies. Her own thigh presses upwards while Josephine gasps and rocks against her. It becomes a sort of graceless, primal dance, all slip-slide of flesh against ruined silk and the bumping of hips; the sort of thing Isabela, with a lascivious glint in her eyes, would cheerfully describe as rutting.

Bethany is the first to break, shuddering and arching, Josephine's name clogging her throat. Moments afterwards she feels Josephine stiffen, the sharp dig of fingernails biting into her flesh and a hot spill of wetness against her thigh. Their movements slow, not quite letting up, and Bethany leans down to kiss Josephine. Her hand replaces her thigh between Josephine's legs, two fingers rubbing with light pressure at the sticky, damp fabric there. Beneath her Josephine twitches and jumps at the contact, hands shifting to grip bruisingly hard at Bethany's hipbones.

She relents, pushes at the waistband of Josephine's breeches, and Josephine helps her to shove them down along with her tights and smallclothes. Bethany's hand returns to continue stroking at Josephine, marvelling at the wetness she finds. She kisses Josephine again and again, drinking up every whimper and moan as she presses her fingers inside. Two, at first. When she adds a third and circles Josephine's clitoris with the calloused pad of her thumb, she feels Josephine shudder around her and a sudden gush of liquid splash her palm. Bethany's of a mind to keep going to see just how much more she can wring out of the other woman but Josephine clutches at her wrist, weakly attempting to push her away.

"Oh, darling, no—no more," Josephine says, gasping for air. "Allow me time to recover."

Bethany removes her fingers. They slip out all too easily and Bethany brings them to her mouth to suck them clean. It's worth it, not least for the way Josephine's jaw slackens as she watches.

Josephine's eyes are glazed over when she murmurs, "You will be the death of me."

"Le petit mort," Bethany responds, lips curving into a small smirk. "By my count you should've perished several times over."

A thrill goes through her when she sees Josephine's eyes narrow in challenge. "Let us see, then," Josephine says, pushing at Bethany's shoulder and pressing her down onto the bed, pinning her with a stare as much as with the curves of her body, "if I can even the score."

 

*

 

Late into the afternoon they lie together, limbs loosely entwined. They doze for a while, wake to exchange lazy kisses, and drift back into slumber again. A feeling settles over Bethany, one that she struggles to reconcile. In Josephine's arms there's comfort, security, acceptance. How is it that she feels safe here? The fate of the world rests in the hands of the Inquisition, literally in the hand of one man, yet Bethany doesn't feel frightened. Not when she's holding Josephine so close.

She should be afraid, not only of Corypheus, but what it means to be a Warden and in love; worse, to have fallen in love with a woman who is well above her station. Josephine has given her assurances for the present but Bethany can't help but wonder where things will stand when—if—Corphyeus is defeated. The Order will expect Bethany to return to her posting, perhaps in Ferelden or somewhere further afield. She and Josephine may never see each other again.

"What's the matter?" Josephine asks sleepily. Her fingers trace over the small crease between Bethany's eyebrows. "I can almost hear you thinking."

Bethany knows she should deflect but the warmth of Josephine's gaze disarms her, leaves her unguarded. "What will you do when this is all over?"

Josephine mulls the question over for a few seconds. "The Inquisition has grown into a powerful political and military force in a relatively short span of time. There will always be disputes and I suspect many will continue to look to the Inquisitor to intercede. I hope to continue as Ambassador for as long as I'm needed, although I certainly would not object to relocating to a more temperate and civilised locale. Val Royeaux is quite delightful all year around. One day, I suppose, I will return to oversee my family's estate."

Bethany turns her head away, not wanting Josephine to see the despondency that must be apparent on her face. Fingertips come to her jaw, gently urging her to look at the other woman. "I wish—" Bethany stops herself short. There's no sense in giving voice to this. It won't change anything.

"Tell me."

Josephine kisses her so gently that Bethany doesn't know whether the wants to cry or smash things. She takes a breath, swallows against the dry lump in her throat. "I want to be with you, whether that's in Skyhold or Val Royeaux or Antiva City. If I could I'd follow you to anywhere in Thedas and beyond."

'Could' being the operative word. In reality her fate will be decided by the orders of a handful of the most senior Wardens at Weisshaupt. She's only at Skyhold now by their leave, secured at the Inquisitor's request. They could just as easily revoke their permission tomorrow.

"I want you with me, too, my love," Josephine says, cupping Bethany's cheeks in both her hands. She kisses her again, all the more heartfelt for the tumult of emotions swelling between them. "I want you by my side, in my bed, in my life, for as long as we are able to be together."

Bethany gives a tremulous smile, aware that her eyes are filling up and seeing the same expression mirrored on Josephine's face. "That sounds an awful lot like a proposal, Lady Montilyet."

Josephine's smile falters, if for only a second. "It does, doesn't it." She eyes Bethany, taking in her features as if committing them to memory. The moment feels significant, more so than Bethany realises until, "Suppose it was?"

A beat of silence passes as they stare at each other.

"What?" Bethany says, blinking slowly. "You mean—" Another blink. "Are you serious?"

Josephine's eyes are wide, as if she's equally startled by this turn of events. "I—yes. I think I am." The fingers resting against Bethany's cheeks are trembling slightly. "Bethany Hawke, will you bestow upon me the great honour of becoming my wife?"

_Maker's breath! This is really happening._

There are _rules_ : Wardens don't marry (romantic entanglements are strongly discouraged); two women can't, officially, under Chantry law. Despite these impediments Bethany's only answer is an unequivocal, "Yes."

"You will?" Josephine sounds disbelieving.

Against her better judgement Bethany finds herself swept along by the notion. How could she refuse? "Of course I will, Josephine," she says through a watery laugh.

There are tears—the messy, happy kind—from both of them and Josephine peppering her face with kisses. Bethany pulls Josephine into her arms, holding her tight enough to banish any doubts from her mind for the time being.

 

*

 

From her vantage point on the ramparts Bethany watches the Inquisition forces slowly snaking their way up the mountain path towards Skyhold. She remains there until she recognises the Inquisitor, flanked by Cullen at one shoulder, Cassandra at the other. Trudging a few paces behind are Varric, Solas, Bull, Vivienne, Cole and Dorian.

She descends the steps closest to the lower courtyard as the head of the army begins to cross the bridge. Leliana and Josephine are waiting on the steps overlooking the fortress entrance and Bethany goes to join them. In the courtyard below the patrons, pilgrims, refugees and merchants have gathered, Sera and Master Dennet amongst them.

When Bethany reaches the advisers she inclines her head in greeting before letting her gaze rest upon Josephine. In the sunlight Josephine's eyes are a captivating pale grey and Bethany nearly trips on the final step in her distracted state. Josephine bites her lip, clearly trying to contain a smile. Both are oblivious to Leliana's eye roll.

A cheer goes up as soon as the Inquisitor strides under the arch of the gatehouse though Bethany can see from here that he and his companions are grim-faced. There is no exalting in a triumphant return for them. The celebrating crowd seem to cotton on to this quickly and their cheers subdue to a dim murmur, only to be drowned out by the heavy stamp of boots against dirt and stone.

Hundreds of pairs of eyes watch the Inquisitor climb the steps to the keep, Cullen and Cassandra at his back. Leliana and Josephine bow and curtsey respectively but he's looking at Bethany, apology writ across his face. "I am truly sorry for your loss."

Bethany's jaw tightens. She nods, not trusting her voice not to break. Her eyes drift to Varric in the courtyard. He looks as world weary as she feels, his mouth set in a grimace.

"To the war room?" Cullen says and the Inquisitor responds with a grunt of agreement.

Josephine presses her fingers briefly to Bethany's hand, stepping in close to speak into her ear, "I may be some time. You should go to Varric."

With one last soft look at Bethany, Josephine turns to follow the Inquisitor and the other advisers into the keep. Taking a moment to compose herself Bethany takes the steps slowly and crosses the packed courtyard, slipping between the soldiers milling around. Varric is fussing with Bianca as Bethany approaches and he doesn't glance in her direction, even when her boots are in his line of sight.

"You and Ruffles looked cosy up there," he remarks mildly. "Things must be going well."

"You could say that. We're engaged."

That forces him to look up. His eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline. "Well, shit. You girls move fast." He chuckles. "Wait until Rivaini hears about this."

"That could be sooner than you think. She sent word that she's coming to Skyhold."

"The old gang back together."

There's a glint in Varric's eye that betrays his forced good humour. He stares at the ground and without a word Bethany moves closer, putting her arm around his shoulder. He leans his head against her, just slightly, and they don't speak. Neither of them have the words.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue is appropriated from Varric's cutscene in the game after leaving Hawke the Fade. Because feels.

The mood in the Herald's Rest is unusually sombre for a Friday evening. The tavern patrons have their heads bent over their mugs while Maryden plucks a bittersweet refrain on the lute. What little conversation there is at each table is pitched low. In two days the vigil will be held in the Throne Room, led by Mother Giselle. So many have expressed their desire to pay their respects, far exceeding the capacity of the chapel, that the Inquisitor insisted on a change of venue to accommodate the numbers. Emissaries have even arrived from Ferelden, Orlais, and the Free Marches.

Marian is a hero with a capital H, a decree from Empress Celene herself. If Marian was here now she'd be secretly preening, even while she pretended to be bored by it all.

"Another hand, Sunshine?" Varric asks as he shuffles the deck of cards.

Bethany nods, giving a wan smile. He's kind enough not to comment on her mood but she sees a similar kind of despondency in him, as if he's simply going through the motions of being sociable.

"Josephine?"

"Oh, yes. Why not? It would appear luck is on my side tonight."

There's no luck about it; Josephine's accumulated a sizeable pile of silver over the course of the evening. Bethany's old boss Athenril would call this a shakedown, and she and Varric suckers for falling for the ingénue act. They've underestimated Josephine, to the detriment of their coin purses.

Varric deals them in and they each inspect their hand.

A pair of serpents and no other matching suits? Useless. Bethany sighs, "You may as well just take the last of my money now. I'm out." She places her cards face down on the table.

"You're never going to win with that attitude," says Varric. "Anyway, I'm sure Ruffles here will be happy to negotiate an alternative payment plan to make good on your debt."

"Master Tethras, if you are suggesting—" Josephine begins only to stop short at the sound of a commotion outside: a muffled shout of, "Get your paws off me or at least buy me a pint first."

The tavern door swings open and all eyes swivel towards the woman standing at the threshold, dusting off her gloves. Behind her there's a soldier rolling around on the ground, hands cupped over his groin. For a moment there's only stupefied silence, everyone gawking at the newcomer, until a couple of off-duty guardsmen are roused from inaction to advance upon the woman. She looks like she's relishing the imminent prospect of a brawl.

"Just like Rivaini to make an entrance," Varric mutters, then louder: "Hold on, fellows, she's with us."

"You know this person?" Josephine asks, glancing between Bethany and Varric, alarmed. At the same time Isabela appears to spot them, shouldering past the bewildered guards, and sauntering over to their table.

"Yes, for better or worse." Bethany clears her throat. "This is Captain Isabela of the Felicisima Armada."

It's daunting to think it's been nearly two years since Kirkwall but Isabela looks almost exactly as Bethany remembers, with the addition of a ridiculously oversized bicorne hat and a heavy wool cape, apparently her one concession to the chilly climate.

"It's Admiral, now," the woman in question says and holds out her arms. "And give me a proper welcome, you goose."

Rising from her seat, Bethany rounds the table and allows Isabela to pull her into a crushing hug. The scent of saltwater, leather and spiced rum that clings to Isabela is so familiar, so much like home that Bethany has to blink away the sudden sting of tears. She presses her face against Isabela's shoulder, careless of the sharp edges of the pauldron she wears.

She steps back after a minute and finds it difficult to meet the soft look in Isabela's eyes. More so when Isabela fits a hand briefly to her cheek. "Look at you," Isabela says. Her tone is light yet it feels intimate and weighted with things long unsaid. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too," Bethany says, swallowing a lump in her throat. Her eyes dart towards Josephine and she notices how stiffly Josephine sits, the thin purse of her lips, how she regards Isabela with a cautious stare. "Let me introduce you. Isabela, this is Lady Josephine Montilyet of Antiva City, Ambassador and chief diplomat of the Inquisition."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Admiral."

Isabela considers Josephine, dark eyes flicking over her, before she gives a low bow, a slow smile spreading across her face. "The pleasure's all mine, sweet thing. I'm rather partial to an Antivan."

The slight widening of Josephine's eyes is the only outward indication of her shock. She folds her hands primly on the table.

"Aren't you forgetting something, Sunshine?" Varric pipes up, watching this whole exchange with amusement. 

They all look to Bethany and she stares at Varric. He lifts his eyebrows expectantly. "Um, Josephine's also my intended."

Isabela looks perplexed for a few seconds. The penny drops. " _Oh_." She laughs then, so loud and ribald that it draws a few stares from nearby patrons. "I _knew_ it was more than innocent curiosity when you interrogated me about sleeping with women back when you were just a slip of a girl. Found out from first hand experience what those six things are, did you?"

"Isabela!" Bethany groans, drawing a hand down her face. In the intervening years Isabela hasn't lost her ability to mortify. She looks to Varric for support but he's shaking his head and smirking into his goblet.

"Well... if you'll excuse me," Josephine says as she pushes back her chair to stand, her tone clipped, "I have some matters to attend to. Admiral, your lodgings are situated in the north tower. I trust Bethany will show you to your room."

Bethany moves to intercept her. "Josephine—"

"Please, stay. I'm sure you have much to catch up on." Josephine inclines her head and backs away. "Another time."

With a sigh Bethany takes Josephine's vacated seat, leaving Isabela to take the empty spot beside Varric. Bethany picks up Josphine's unfinished wine and drinks, aware of Isabela's entirely too interested gaze.

"Something I said? She blew us off faster than a whore at the Rose." Isabela grabs the wine bottle, takes a hearty swig, and promptly makes a face. "What is this piss? It's worse than the wretched swill Corff serves at the Hanged Man."

"You did come on a little strong, Rivaini."

"If _someone_ had told me the delightful Lady Ambassador was Bethany's fiancée, I would've been on my best behaviour." Off her companions' sceptical expressions, Isabela rolls her eyes. "Fine but I wouldn't have flirted."

After a beat of silence, Isabela chuckles. Even she doesn't buy it.

"So you're betrothed? Maker's balls!" Isabela leans forward on her elbows. If there's a slightly forced note of cheer in her voice, no one picks up on it. "Tell me everything."

 

*

 

After a few too many drinks, Bethany accompanies Isabela up to the battlements. Isabela sways dangerously before catching hold of Bethany's elbow and righting herself. She doesn't let go as they walk together.

"Skyhold is bloody grim," Isabela says, eyeing the crumbling stonework that's being overtaken by ivy. "Not a hint of ocean in sight. Just endless snow and hulking great mountains."

"It's not that bad. You should've seen it before the restorations began."

"This place makes Kirkwall seem like a veritable jewel in comparison." Isabela huddles closer for warmth. "Speaking of, any word from the others?"

"Nothing from Merrill but I expected as much. Aveline has her hands full with the City Guard and a baby on the way; she's too far along to take ship. She sent her apologies."

"Shame, I was actually looking forward to hearing Big Girl's tired old insults." For a moment Isabela does look genuinely sad. Beneath the scathing put downs and mutual distaste there's grudging affection, a perverse kind of loyalty. Neither Isabela or Aveline would ever admit it but they do care for one another.

They come to a stop in front of the tower. "Here you are. These used to be my quarters."

"Where the real magic happened, I'll bet." Isabela says with a wink. Her hand slips from the crook of Bethany's elbow. Instead her fingers toy with the buckles of Bethany's uniform as the space between the two of them seems to shrink. "Could I interest you in a night cap?"

A groan, "Isabela."

"What? You can't blame me for trying. You fill out that uniform so well."

Just like that Isabela sobers. She playfully shoves Bethany away and tips her hat. "I hope Lady Montilyet knows she's a very lucky woman."

Even though she's embarrassed, Bethany can't help but smile at the compliment. "Goodnight, Isabela." She pauses for a second. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me too, sweetness."

 

*

 

Isabela's arrival causes quite a stir.

The next day there's a small crowd gathered in the training yard to witness the infamous, so-called 'Queen of the Eastern Seas' sparring with the pick of Cullen's soldiers. It's mesmerising to see Isabela take down men twice her size with practised ease. A steady procession of battered recruits leave the ring limping, with bloodied noses and wounded pride, and Isabela with hardly a hair out of place. Bull and Sera join Bethany and the other spectators. After a while even Cassandra saunters over, curiosity piqued.

They watch as Isabela evades the clumsy thrust of a sword only to sweep the hapless soldier's legs out from under him. She pins him to the ground with a foot on his back and he quickly yields.

"I don't know about you but I'm aroused," Bull remarks.

"Oh, she'd definitely get it," Sera says, leaning against the fence that circles the combatants. "She's well fit."

"Her technique is impressive, I'll admit," Cassandra says evenly, "but that bodice offers no protection against a blade. It's completely impractical."

"You say impractical, I say _phwoar_ ," comes Sera's reply, eyes never straying from Isabela's ample bosom.

Bull grunts in agreement.

"You do know this woman was the one who stole the Tome of Koslun? Hawke killed your Arishok over it," Cassandra says to Bull. "Aren't you the least bit angry with her? Surely she is considered an enemy of the Qun?"

He shrugs his massive shoulders. "Doesn't mean I wouldn't let her ride the bull."

A disgusted noise leaves Cassandra's throat. 

"Sorry to disappoint but Isabela goes out of her way to avoid Qunari," Bethany says.

Sera pumps her fist. "Yes! All the more for me. Been wondering though: did someone steal her breeches?"

 

*

 

That night Josephine is agitated when she returns to their shared quarters. It's obvious in the brisk movements as she disrobes, the slight moue of her mouth. She changes wordlessly into a pale pink nightgown, one with almost as many frills and ruffles as the blouses she favours.

From her spot on the bed, Bethany sets aside the book she was reading. "Is something the matter?"

She hasn't seen Josephine since dinner. Normally they take their meals together but tonight Josephine joined Leliana and Cullen, leaving Bethany to sit with Varric and Isabela. She hadn't thought much of it; at times the advisers do find it necessary to grab something to eat while they continue strategising. It seemed to be one such occasion.

"How long does the Admiral intend to stay at Skyhold?" Josephine asks as she methodically plucks the pins from her hair and stows them in a small jewelled case on the dresser.

"I'm not sure. I suppose she'll leave a few days after the vigil. Her ship is docked at Gwaren." Bethany sits up against the headboard, a frown on her face. "Why?"

There's silence while Josephine continues letting down her hair. Once free from the chignon she sets about loosening the braid, until that too is unravelled. She runs her fingers through the tangles before turning to Bethany, annoyance simmering in her eyes.

"Did you know that today, in the throne room, she—she slapped Leliana's behind? In front of several esteemed dignitaries from Nevarra! You can imagine their mortification, as well as my own."

Bethany presses her lips together to smother a smile. Once she's sure it's under control she asks, "What did Leliana do?"

"She actually _blushed_ , stammered like a schoolgirl as she excused herself. When I questioned her about it later she admitted that she'd once had a... tryst with Isabela in Denerim. In a brothel, no less. Accompanied by an Antivan Crow and the Hero of Ferelden."

Well. Bethany isn't sure what to say to that. She's kind of impressed, actually.

Josephine throws up her hands. "Am I the only person in Thedas that fails to see the appeal? The woman is crass and has no concept of boundaries, not to mention her flagrant disregard for proper etiquette. She leaves nothing to the imagination in attire or conversation."

"It isn't like you to form such a harsh opinion of someone so quickly," Bethany says carefully. She slips from the bed and approaches the other woman. She lifts her hands to Josephine's shoulders, feeling the corded tension there. "What's this really about?"

Josephine expels a harsh breath and looks away. "I simply find her manner too over-familiar."

For a moment Bethany studies Josephine's face, the tightness around her eyes, lips pressed together in a thin line. There's a hint of distress beneath the outrage. "That's just her way but it's not all she is. You don't know her like I do. Isabela's a dear friend."

Grey eyes turn back upon her. "Really. Was there ever anything more between you?"

"Maker, no!" Bethany says quickly. "She's like family; the eccentric aunt you see once every few years who forgoes trousers and flirts shamelessly with everybody."

"Thankfully I have no such relative. If I did, they would surely be ostracised."

"What I mean is: she's harmless, as far as the innuendoes go."

"Are you so certain? The way she looks at you, I'm inclined to disagree."

"Me?" Bethany asks, eyebrows shooting up. "I thought we were talking about her impropriety towards Leliana."

At that Josephine laughs shortly. "Oh, Leliana is more than capable of fending off unwanted attention. If indeed that is the case. No, my darling, the Admiral looks at you as if you are an old flame she longs to rekindle."

Bethany's hands drop to her sides. She shakes her head, incredulous. They've known each other for years and not once has Isabela seriously suggested anything of the sort. Flirting is one of the tools in Isabela's arsenal to ingratiate herself, to get under people's skin, or just to alleviate boredom. It doesn't mean anything.

If anything, Bethany thought Isabela harboured complicated feelings for Marian. In the early days they were always at each other's throats, sometimes literally with a blade. She suspects they might have had a drunken fling once, before Anders, and by mutual agreement decided never to mention it. In the intervening years it's difficult to say what they were to each other; Bethany wasn't around to observe any of it except when their paths crossed briefly. There was sniping, on Isabela's part, cool ambivalence from Marian, and Bethany knew better than to get involved.

But Bethany and Isabela? They're close, as much as time and distance allows, but there's never been anything romantic. When they first met, yes, Bethany sort of fancied the older woman. It was awe and admiration and attraction, all muddled together for six confusing months. Then she didn't see Isabela again for years, until Kirkwall was in flames and the Qunari were rampaging through the city. By then the infatuation had naturally ran its course.

"It's fondness for an old friend, nothing more," Bethany insists. She takes Josephine's hands, imploring. "Even if she does feel something for me, I don't—can't—reciprocate."

Josephine steps closer, clasping their hands together only to wind Bethany's arms around her waist. Secure in that hold, Josephine lets go, pressing her palms flat against the slope of Bethany's chest. "I know. I trust you. It's the Admiral's intentions that are suspect."

"Then I'll speak to her. Make it clear in no uncertain terms."

"I don't think that will be necessary. She knows you are engaged and as long as she has made no overt move then I have no legitimate cause for concern."

"Hm. Well. About that..." Josephine's eyes narrow as she waits for Bethany to continue. Bethany clears her throat. "She may have sort of... propositioned me the other night."

Josephine stares, displeasure etched across her face. "Why didn't you mention this sooner?"

"For as long as I've known Isabela she's made a sport of teasing me about sex. It's a game to her. I thought she was joking, as usual. I promise you I haven't encouraged her."

This appears to mollify Josephine somewhat. Her fingers idly smooth over the cotton nightshirt that Bethany wears. It isn't a touch intended to arouse but Bethany reacts to it nonetheless, heat flooding the pit of her stomach.

"Isabela is an attractive woman, admirably proportioned if one's tastes are inclined to such obvious physical attributes." Josephine drops her gaze. "To see her ease with you, the way she handles you with familiarity... And I _know_! I know it's irrational but I cannot help these doubts that gnaw at me."

"Josephine, you're everything to me. Don't you know that?" Bethany squeezes Josephine's waist lightly for emphasis. "You're beautiful, kind, charming, clever, compassionate, fiercely protective, terrifying when crossed, so incredibly desirable you drive me to distraction. Your loveliness is beyond compare. I could go on..."

"You are too much," Josephine says with a soft laugh. The way Josephine's looking at her, so full of affection and a little exasperation, makes warmth suffuse Bethany's heart.

"I mean every word of it."

Josephine kisses her then so sweetly that it steals Bethany's breath away. What begins as a soft, tender meeting of lips gradually deepens by degrees. Bethany opens her mouth to the flick of a tongue. They are languid, unhurried in their exploration. Their hands move with steady purpose, Josephine's gliding down Bethany's chest to cup her breasts through the nightshirt, while Bethany's roam over the swell of Josephine's behind.

Not ceasing contact for a second, Bethany grasps the backs of Josephine's thighs and lifts her up. A small gasp is lost against her lips as Josephine wraps her legs around Bethany's waist. She carries Josephine towards the bed, stopping short when her knees bump against the mattress and she lays Josephine down gently. Bethany holds herself over the other woman, bracing her arms on either side of Josephine's shoulders, knees bracketing her thighs. Their hips fit snugly together like pieces of the same puzzle.

As they kiss Bethany becomes aware of a slight chill against her backside, of her nightshirt being rucked up, the stirring counterpoint of warm hands on her skin as they round the curve of her hips and trail up her sides. They cover her breasts and she sighs, her nipples tight and hard poking into Josephine's palms. Josephine's touch retreats, meandering back down Bethany's torso to her hips, only to retrace that same path upwards. Over and over until Bethany is half-crazed with excitement and her arms are trembling from the effort of holding herself up.

"Josephine," she groans roughly, breath harsh. Her hips move with unconscious intent, a slow grind that brings scant relief.

"Make love to me." Josephine presses kisses along Bethany's jaw until she reaches her ear. She takes the lobe between her lips, using the barest hint of teeth, before releasing it. She speaks lowly, "Perhaps you could demonstrate for me this repertoire of six things I've heard about, hmm?"

 

*

 

Bethany stands before a tall mirror adjusting the collar of her uniform. She's been up since dawn spit-shining her boots, polishing the buckles and fastenings of her robes, mending a tear here, a dropped hem there. Her hair is tied back neatly, smoothed down with a dab of Josephine's lacquer to give the brown a dull lustre. She looks adequate, she supposes; it wouldn't pass muster on parade at Ansburg Keep but she has no other options for formal wear at her disposal.

She's so focused on inspecting her reflection that she doesn't hear Josephine's quiet approach.

"Ah, you're already dressed. I have something for you."

Bethany looks over her shoulder, turning fully when she notices the rather bulky package in Josephine's hands. "What's this?"

"Open it and see."

Bethany takes the bundle from her. It's heavier than she expects. She crosses to the desk, setting it down carefully. She pulls at the strings that hold it together then pushes apart the thick parchment wrapping, revealing a shiny griffin wing pauldron resting atop what appears to be a folded Warden battlemage coat.

"There are trousers, beneath. Also, an under-shirt, belt and gloves. All in the current regulation style. Alas, I was unable to secure new boots in time but I think—"

"Josephine," Bethany interrupts. She stares at the other woman in dumb-struck wonderment. She doesn't have words for what this means. "Thank you."

A pleased smile curves across Josephine's lips, her eyes soft as they search Bethany's. "You have time to change, if you'll allow me to assist."

Between them they make short work of it—Josephine steadfastly resisting the temptation of bared skin for once—and soon Bethany is dressed in the crisp new uniform. For a moment or two Josephine fusses with the sash and belt, adjusting the lines of the coat until it meets with her approval. The last piece to go on is the shoulder guard, which Josephine affixes to Bethany's right bicep.

"What do you think?"

Josephine contemplates her slowly, teeth tugging on her bottom lip. "That I may have more than your Admiral friend to worry about when all Skyhold sees how very dashing you look."

"Fortunate that I'm already spoken for, then."

Josephine steps closer, her hand coming to rest on Bethany's arm. She presses a gentle kiss to Bethany's cheek. "Are you ready? I could delay proceedings if you require more time to prepare."

"No, I'm ready," Bethany replies, squaring her shoulders. She takes Josephine's hand and tucks it under her arm. Gives a brave smile that belies the fact she's quietly shattering inside. "Let's get this over with."

 

*

 

The Throne Room is packed, those gathered standing shoulder to shoulder. Dignitaries and allies are afforded a prominent position at the front alongside the Inquisitor, his advisers and inner circle. Behind them there are rows upon rows of Inquisition soldiers, disbanded Templars from Therinfal Redoubt, conscripted Wardens from Adamant Fortress at the back. There are more still congregating outside the keep—workers, servants, pilgrims—spilling down the steps and swarming the upper courtyard.

The words of the sermon wash over Bethany yet she feels oddly displaced. She is present, sandwiched between Josephine and Varric, but it's as if the sounds are coming from very far away. She listens as Mother Giselle talks of heroic sacrifice, a shining symbol of bravery, the beloved daughter, sister, friend, lover. None of it adds up to the image of Marian in Bethany's head, as if her sister's jagged edges are being ritually rounded off to reshape her into something more palatable, something to be revered, the martyr they sorely need.

She catches Isabela's eye over the top of Varric's head. Isabela lifts her brows as if to say, "Are you hearing this shit, too?"

Parts of her thinks, does it matter? Maybe it's all right for these people to think Marian a better person than she was, maybe there's peace to be found in that.

She's glad, finally, for the Chant to begin.

_The Light shall lead her safely_  
_Through the paths of this world, and into the next._

Mother Giselle beckons towards Bethany. It's easier than she expects, to put one foot in front of the other. She understands what's being asked of her, remembers taking these same measured steps in the Kirkwall Chantry for Mother's funeral. Then she had Marian by her side, her sister's blank stoicism lending her strength.

_For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water._  
_As the moth sees light and goes toward flame._

She watches Mother Giselle light a taper from a burning candle placed upon the temporary pulpit. The Reverend Mother cups a palm around the flame to protect it from being extinguished then turns to Bethany, offering the taper. A multitude of candles of all sizes are arranged in front of the wall to the left side of the throne and Bethany crosses over to them.

 _She should see fire and go towards Light._  
_The Veil holds no uncertainty for her._

She stoops. There are hundreds of voices ringing in her ears reciting the prayer, making the hair rise on the back of her neck.

 _And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker_  
_Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword._

Her hand shakes as she brings the taper to the nearest wick. It takes a few attempts for it to alight; for a second she considers helping it along with magic, if that wasn't considered some heinous act of blasphemy. She almost sighs with relief when the flame takes. She shuts her eyes briefly, not to offer a silent benediction to the Maker but to issue a demand to Marian, as if it's possible to reach her across the Veil: _Come back, you wretch_.

She returns to her place beside Josephine and Varric as one by one the faithful step forward to light a candle. She feels the light press of Varric's hand on her back but she can't look at him; if she does, she'll crumble. Instead she looks to Josephine and sees adoration and concern in the other woman's expression. She reaches for Josephine's hand, heedless of all these people surrounding them, and entwines their fingers. The worry in Josephine's gaze eases; she squeezes Bethany's hand. That simple gesture fortifies Bethany, keeps the grief at bay. With Josephine at her side she feels like she can endure this ordeal.

 

*

 

The reception held in the dining hall afterwards is a stilted affair. Marian hardly lent herself to fond remembrances amongst those who knew her and Bethany isn't about to share any anecdotes of all the times her sister was rude or awful, however amusing they might seem in retrospect. It falls to Cassandra, Cullen and the Inquisitor to try to commend Marian to the assembled nobles and visiting officials, while Varric and Isabela huddle together getting progressively more drunk.

Josephine hasn't stopped touching Bethany since the vigil: the clasp of her hand, a touch to her forearm, or fingers curled around the crook of her elbow. It's the only thing stopping her from fleeing this charade.

"You're doing so well, my love," Josephine murmurs under her breath before making polite introductions to yet another fawning lord eager to make the acquaintance of the sister to the Hero of Adamant. Josephine is expert at steering the conversation such that Bethany hardly has to say anything at all. Once he's gone, Josephine continues, "Another half hour and we'll be able to make our excuses. I've arranged for dinner to be served in our quarters and a bath to be drawn. I presumed you would prefer for us to be alone, away from prying eyes."

Bethany gives a grateful look. It would be frowned upon to kiss Josephine here but she wants to, so much.

Josephine must read her intent because she smiles, offers an, "I know. Soon."

 

*

 

Before they leave Bethany decides she ought to seek out Varric and Isabela, as a courtesy at least. She finds Varric in the midst of regaling a small group of nobles with a story about that time Marian ended up on the Merchant Guild hit list over a missing shipment of wandering hills from the Anderfels.

She hangs back, allowing him to finish.

"The guild traced the shipment to Hawke's Uncle, but as usual, he was so far in debt he couldn't see daylight. So they went after Hawke instead. They sent guys from the local Carta to Hawke's estate one night. Five big dusters, armed to the teeth."

A gasp, "What happened next?"

"They kicked in the door, and Hawke's just standing there, fully armed, with me and the Guard-Captain on either side. Nobody even said a word. The poor sods just looked at Hawke, looked at the Captain, and dropped their weapons. They never came back."

The nobles laugh, oblivious to Varric's downcast gaze. "Hawke just... had that effect on people."

Bethany clears her throat. "Sorry to cut in but could I have a word?"

They step away from the group, finding a quiet corner. "Quite the fan club you have there," Bethany remarks.

"Public relations, my publisher calls it. Supposedly it helps boost my book sales."

"Mhm. Is Isabela around? I was hoping to catch her."

Varric looks at her strangely. "She didn't tell you?" He sighs. "Of course she didn't. That woman is terrible at goodbyes."

"She's... leaving? Already?"

He nods. "Said she was missing the lure of the sea. Honestly, it's a little bizarre. Why come all this way and not stick around for a while?"

"Oh," Bethany says quietly. She feels a pang of sorrow so sharp it leaves her winded. "When?"

"An hour ago, maybe. Sunshine—"

"I have to go." She gives him an apologetic look and hurries over to Josephine, drawing her away from a conversation with Cullen and Cassandra. "I have to check on something. I'll meet you back at our room."

"Are you all right?" Josephine asks, slightly alarmed.

"I'm fine, honestly. I'll explain soon."

Once out of the dining hall Bethany all but races to the north tower. She finds Isabela's room empty, her few belongings cleared out, save for a note left on the table. She scrambles to open it, heart sinking as she reads the looping script:

 _Sweetness,_  
_I'm sorry to bugger off so abruptly. It's better this way._  
_I don't think your betrothed approves of me but I wish you both every happiness together._  
_Write to me, won't you?_  
_Love, Isabela_  
_PS Look after Varric_

It's awful that she feels more stricken about Isabela's sudden departure than she does about her sister's quasi-funeral (because for all intents and purposes that's what it was).

She wanders over to the unmade bed and sits for a while, absorbing the stillness of the room, watching the dust motes suspended in the daylight that spills through the arrow loops. She breathes, in-out, in-out, conscious of the rise and fall of her chest, until a sense of calm prevails, until she feels less like she's falling apart.


End file.
